


flatterers look like friends (as wolves like dogs.)

by darkinnocent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Sansa Stark, Blood and Violence, Chaos is a ladder, Dark Sansa Stark, Pack Dynamics, Politics, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Revenge, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa Stark-centric, Strong Female Characters, The North Remembers (ASoIaF), Winterfell, wolf in sheeps clothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkinnocent/pseuds/darkinnocent
Summary: When Myranda shows Sansa the kennels, she is reminded that Starks are wolves....What if Sansa had embraced the chaos Littlefinger had taught her and all the darkness that comes from it instead of reverting to another plaything? What if she had embraced the wolf within?
Comments: 113
Kudos: 446





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine encourages strange things. This is an idea I've turned over various times in my head, but never explored. I understand Sansa's journey in the show and why she responded as she did. In honesty, it is how most of us would have responded in the face of such cruelty and madness. 
> 
> However, Sansa has been the victim of these things before and managed to survive although she was only a child. In the series, she professes to be a "slow learner." I decided to speed up her education.
> 
> Some chapters play a little fast and loose with the events of the show -- some conversations take place in different orders, or with entirely different conversations between the two characters taking place. However, the "main events" that are shared by the show and the fiction take place within the same timeframe. This is quite a challenge since D&D have been open about (and criticized for) their inconsistencies with time, but I did my best using in-canon dialogue and logic as well as interviews from the showrunners to plot out the timeframes. 
> 
> I will note before chapters when a certain event is taking place or if there is dialogue taken out of sequence to avoid confusion. If you have any questions, or I am unclear in any way, please feel free to leave a comment. Thank you for reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter take place during 5x5: _Kill the Boy_

_“Wolves and women are relational by nature, inquiring, possessed of great endurance and strength. They are deeply intuitive, intensely concerned with their young, their mate and their pack. Yet both have been hounded, harassed and falsely imputed to be devouring and devious, overly aggressive, of less value than those who are their detractors.”_

– Clarissa Pinkola Estes

If she had to pinpoint it, Sansa would say she noticed the change in her the day she came back to Winterfell.

It took every ounce of strength she had to keep a calm deposition, when part of her wanted to do nothing more than to burst into tears and the other wanted to scream until her throat was raw. Still, she smiled, she curtsied, she said the right things. Littlefinger smiled at her in a way that made her wary, but it was a look she knew that meant she had performed exactly as he had wished.

Looking at the charred remains of her home, she couldn’t help but think that it only made sense for her home to be a hollow shell of what it once was. It was the perfect representation of her family. Broken and hollow, a shadow of itself. Her mind touched on Arya and Jon, the only Starks left, and she wondered if they were alive, if they were safe, if they were happy. It was a game she played often, one that brought her solace and despair.

“I like your dress.”

Sansa glanced at the girl who approached her. She seemed about the same age as Robb would be, if he were still alive. She had a grin on her face, but there was deviousness in her eyes. Almost as though she were playing a joke on Sansa, and she didn’t know it.

“Who made it for you?” the girl continued.

She swallowed, caught off guard and without her mask.

“I made it myself,” she managed, pulling herself fully out of her thoughts. _Curtesy was a woman’s armor._

“Really?” she smiled to herself. Again, Sansa couldn’t shake the feeling that the girl was having fun at her expense.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Myranda. The kennel master’s daughter,” the girl replied, looking down at her clasped hands in a mockery of servitude.

Sansa smiled to herself and began to turn the conversation in her favor. She had come off unsure and frightened in the beginning and she was glad to use that in her favor. Let the kennel master’s daughter underestimate her.

If Myranda _was_ the kennel master’s daughter, she had no reason to be speaking with Sansa. She hadn’t brought any hunting animals with her, nor were women usually consulted about such things. Myranda was seeking her out for a specific purpose. To size her up? Perhaps. For now, Sansa collected every moment of their interaction as she began to carve out exactly what kind of player Myranda was and exactly what the girl wanted.

“May I?” Myranda asked, reaching for her sleeve.

Sansa tilted her head and obliged, watching as Myranda bent over to examine her dress.

“Oh, wonderful,” she complimented, tracing her sleeve. “The stitching. Who taught you?”

Myranda smiled into her face, the picture of innocence. Sansa met her gaze easily as she registered the move. Myranda had touched her in a familiar manner, something meant to make her uneasy. She had then quickly followed it up with a compliment, before asking a question that was meant to strike at the core of her. Cersei had performed the maneuver on her hundreds of times and done so with much more success. Myranda wanted her to feel vulnerable.

Not so innocent after all.

“My mother,” Sansa replied, pulling free of Myranda’s grasping fingers.

But she wasn’t done with her yet.

“I’m… sorry… for what happened to her,” Myranda replied, sounding perfectly contrite.

“Thank you.” Sansa’s response was as genuine as Myranda’s remorse.

“It’s good that she taught you. It’s a gift. Now every time you wear something you made, you can remember her,” an attempt to smooth things over.

Sansa rolled the girl’s response around in her mind, trying to put her finger on what exactly Myranda wanted from this exchange. She kept bringing up her mother, as though Sansa were going to scream about how the girl’s master was the one to cut her mother’s throat. If she was hoping for hysterics, Myranda would be disappointed.

“I would rather have a mother,” Sansa said, offering a truth into a conversation of lies.

“I know, it’s not the same.” The kennel master’s daughter rocked on her heels, eyes to the ground, smiling to herself. “Still it’s good to remember. Remember the way things were.”

The girl was clumsy. If the conversation were a garment, Myranda would make unevenly spaced and sized stitches, a jagged line across the sleeve.

Myranda continued on, “I… almost forgot.” Sansa almost laughed; the girl didn’t forget anything. “There’s… something else… to help you remember.”

Sansa swallowed, allowing some trepidation to show on her face. **This** was the core of the conversation. What was it the girl was going to show her? Did they have Robb’s bones? Her mothers? Would she show her Greywind’s pelt? The knife that cut her mother’s throat?

The girl wanted to her pain. But why?

They travelled silently back towards the kennels. Sansa prepared herself for the worst thing she could imagine. Perhaps Robb’s bones being chewed on by the hounds, discarded like the remains of a feast. She could feel the thrumming from within. The hounds were practically emanating power and aggression.

Myranda opened the door and gestured. “Down there, at the end.”

Sansa played with her glove as she bought time to think. “What is it?”

Again, the coy smile from before. A joke at her expense. “That would spoil the surprise.”

Did the girl intend to kill her? To send her to her death? Was all of this a plot to kill the last of the known Starks? Begrudgingly, Sansa forced herself to trust in Littlefinger’s judgement. He wouldn’t have come to a place where he would be killed. He was too clever for that. No, he cared too much about himself to put himself in harms way. No power was worth dying for.

“Go ahead, it’s perfectly safe.” Myranda leaned into her like a friend telling the most delicious gossip. “You won’t believe it when you see it.”

Sansa quickly weighed her options. In the end, she decided the best approach would be to go inside. If the Bolton’s intended to kill her, it didn’t matter where in Winterfell she went. They had killed someone who had guest rights, they had killed someone who they declared for. They were without honor. There was no where she could go that they wouldn’t murder her without remorse.

The room thrummed with power. She couldn’t see much, but she could hear the dog’s barking and growling at her presence. The smell was strong and thick, but she had smelled worse things in Flea Bottom.

Swallowing her fear, Sansa stepped inside.

As she walked, the dog’s jumped up at their cages, gnashing their teeth. She met the gaze of the hound in front of her and her ears began to ring. Rapidly, she tried to gather the edges of her thoughts around her. Her heart was racing and her chest tightening, signs she knew accompanied complete panic. She couldn’t afford to fall apart.

Just when she was sure her heart was about to burst; everything came to a stop.

The dogs ceased barking.

Silence.

And then, a whine.

Sansa blinked and the world snapped into a sharper clarity. She inhaled deeply as her eyes met the dog in front of her. The second the weight of her gaze was on it, the dog sat down obediently at the front of its cage, waiting for the command of its master. Somehow, she knew that this dog was the alpha although she couldn’t say how.

She looked at the other kennels and was astounded to see the other hounds in the same position.

Slowly, she approached the cage and offered her hand near the bars. Near enough for the dog to smell, but not close enough for it to grab at her fingers. The alpha offered a tentative lick, before laying down and glancing up at her. Unbelievably, its tail thumped in the dirt. Sansa could remember when Lady would look at her like this, eagerly waiting for Sansa to brush her coat or offer her a sweet.

Again, the other dogs mirrored the alpha, lying in wait.

Sansa glanced back at the kennel gate but Myranda was gone. She was alone.

The power she had felt before, it felt as though it was thrumming through her now. She was part of it. The wolf inside of her seemed more alive than it had been since Lady was taken from her. She remembered the first time that she held Lady in her arms, when she ran her fingers through her direwolf’s coat.

Slowly, she went to put her hand through the bars.

“Don’t,” a voice interjected.

Sansa glanced over, shocked.

There in the cold dirt, broken and looking utterly unlike himself in every way, was Theon. _Her surprise._

“You shouldn’t be here,” Theon warned, clutching himself tightly.

The wolf inside her howled. This was exactly where she was meant to be.

…

Later, when she returned to her room to change for dinner, she waited until the Northern handmaid came in with her dress. Dismissing the others, she offered the older woman a seat and a goblet of wine.

“Tell me everything you know about your new masters.”


	2. Two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Staring at Lord Bolton across the table, she wondered if he could sense her snarl beneath the mask of her smile._
> 
> the dinner scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support! I encourage leaving comments as I do consider them when I am working at the story. I'm still playing with what the best direction is for the narrative I want to tell.
> 
> The events of this chapter take place during 5x5: _Kill the Boy_

**Two.**

_“Vulnerability--not hunger, not anger, and certainly not spite--is the key to predator-prey relationships. The skill and viciousness of the hunter matters less than the size, speed, strength, health, and ferocity of the hunted. Vulnerability explains why large predators tend to kill the old, young, and sick members of prey populations. Predators eat the mild and weak because those are the animals they can catch and kill.”_

― Jon T. Coleman, **Vicious: Wolves and Men in America**

Staring at Lord Bolton across the table, she wondered if he could sense her snarl beneath the mask of her smile.

Sansa ate heartily, making easy conversation with Lady Bolton. In her head, she laughed at the idea of this woman taking the place of her mother. Roose Bolton and his wife could not be more different, but she appreciated that he did not curtail the woman’s natural kindness and rather left her to her own devices. The woman was clearly hungry for a friend, for companionship. It took very little effort at all before Lady Bolton was completely entranced by her. She doubted much could come from the friendship, but sometimes information came from surprising sources.

Her ease seemed to surprise her betrothed. He hid his displeasure poorly and seemed rather put out. Originally, she had thought Myranda had shown Sansa the kennels out of jealousy, but now she suspected that her “discovery” of Theon was something planned by Ramsay. _But why?_

Sansa turned the pieces over and over in her head.

Pushing his chair back, Ramsay stood and raised his glass with dramatic flair. “My lady.”

Tilting her head, she considered him. The smile on his face, the tone of his voice as he spoke to her, everything she had learned of him so far... Truly, he reminded her of Joffrey, or rather of what Joffrey could have become if he had honed his cruelty to a sharp instrument rather than a blunt tool.

_And now, Joffrey was dead._ She smiled softly at Ramsay, glancing up at him through her lashes.

“We are all a family, we northerners. Our blood ties go back thousands of years. So I would like to drink to our wedding. May our happiness spread from Moat Cailin to the Last Hearth.”

Yes _,_ she thought. He was quite good at playing the part of a Lord.

“To your wedding,” Lord Bolton toasted.

“To our wedding,” Sansa replied as she smiled with teeth.

She met Ramsay’s eyes over the rim of her goblet as she drank deeply.

She wondered if the Boltons understood the significance of a wolf bearing teeth. No matter. Briefly, she entertained the fantasy that her betrothed’s family would get to experience the Red Wedding for themselves. She could vividly imagine it. Smiling at Roose Bolton, she wondered if his face would be as stoic with her teeth in his neck.

“More wine, please!” Ramsay called out, draining his goblet.

Emerging from the shadows themselves, Theon was completely caved into himself as he brought the wine to the table. Sansa observed him quietly. She could see more fully the damage to his person now. In the kennels he had stayed in a tight ball, protecting himself. As he should.

“I heard you two had been… reunited,” Ramsay said gravely. “A fitting place for it.”

It was child’s play how easily he confirmed her suspicions. Removing her gaze from Theon, she merely raised an eyebrow at Ramsay.

How _had_ Littlefinger been so easily deceived by this boy?

Ramsay smiled to himself, clearly enjoying his little game. Her eyes remained trained on his face as Theon approached her. She could tell Ramsay was practically salivating at her response.

“I like to imagine the last time you spoke was in this very room.”

Rather than flinching away, Sansa raised her goblet for Theon to fill. Her gaze slid to Theon’s face, but he dared not meet it. Her other hand toyed with the knife at her table setting, before retracting to her lap.

_A lady wouldn’t murder an obedient servant at the dinner table._

“Are you still angry at him after he…” Ramsay’s hands fluttered as though he couldn’t bear to speak of what Theon had done to Bran and Rickon. “… what he did.”

She imagined he would normally take great pleasure in describing exactly what Theon had done to her brothers in intricate detail. His exemption was clearly some attempt for him to still appear tame. Sansa wanted to laugh. Ramsay was showing his true self so completely that only a child would be lulled by his half-hearted attempt at security.

She glanced at Roose, who looked both bored and exasperated by his bastard’s game. This was nothing new to him, just as violence was nothing new to Ramsay.

Her betrothed leaned into her, his face the picture of reassurance. “Don’t worry. The North Remembers. I punished him for it. He’s not Iron Born anymore. Not Theon Greyjoy anymore. He’s a new man! A new person, anyway. Aren’t you, Reek?”

“Yes, master,” Theon replied quickly, ready to fall on his knees if commanded.

“That’s his new name. **Reek**.” He was preening, a child proud of his pet.

“ _How_ did you punish him?” Sansa asked, turning more fully in her seat to face him.

Ramsay’s face stuttered slightly and Roose cleared his throat. “We don’t need to speak of this.”

“No, no, no. My wife deserves to know.” Again, he leaned into her and she took a sip of her wine. “I broke him. In all the ways a man can be broken.”

Another sip.

“Then I removed his manhood, root and stem, and sent it to his father,” Ramsay was eagerly grinning now, a laugh underneath his words. “So you see, he is no danger to you anymore.”

“Yes, yes, that’s quite enough,” Roose interrupted, clearly finished with Ramsay’s theatrics, but Ramsay wasn’t done.

“Do you agree, my lady?”

Sansa put down her goblet and licked her lips. As she spoke, she rolled the words around her mouth as though tasting them. “I suppose if I did not, we could always punish him further… in the future.”

Ramsay’s lips parted slightly in surprise before he sucked in a breath through his teeth. She could practically see him recalibrating his thoughts. The northern handmaid, Magda, had told her many things about her betrothed. It was clear to her it was better to be seen as a playmate than prey.

“Would that please you?” Sansa asked, practically hearing Margaery's voice come out of her mouth.

“It would please me… if Reek apologized for murdering your brothers.”

She could feel the crackle in her eyes and the break in her mask. Her rage was naked to him for only a moment. He feasted on the morsel. Sansa cursed herself for it, but she would rather he see her anger than her grief.

All eyes turned to Theon. His despair was so evident, Sansa was practically choking on it. She was glad that Theon has suffered. He deserved it. Still, the mockery of his apology was almost too much for her to stomach. Again, she toyed with her knife. Perhaps if she simply gutted the traitor now, this whole thing would come to a quicker end.

She was quite finished with this game.

“Apologize to Lady Sansa for what you did. Apologize for murdering her two brothers,” Ramsay instructed.

“I’m sorry,” Theon apologized. Her gaze was heavy, piercing.

Once he would have never thought twice to touch her with familiarity, to smile at her with ease. Now, he could barely meet her eyes. 

“Look at her, Reek,” Ramsay continued, the bit between his teeth. “An apology doesn’t mean anything unless you are looking a person in the eye.”

Acid stung the back of her throat. How many times had Theon overheard her mother speaking identical words to her and Arya after one of their countless rows? Her lips pressed tightly against her teeth as she fought not to bear them fully. How many times did her lady mother say it to him and Robb?

Theon’s gaze met hers and he visibly flinched at the raw hatred in them. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Ramsay prodded.

“Sorry for killing your brothers,” Theon continued, each word agony.

Ramsay turned to look at her, absorbing her every expression.

She hated herself for allowing her paw to be ensnared in this trap. She had been free, and she allowed Littlefinger to imprison her once more because he had baited the trap with her home. Swallowing the bile in her throat, Sansa smoothed her face into the picture of northern ice. She was forced to play this game, now was the time to pick what part she would play.

“Say their names,” she instructed. Leaning back into her chair, she looked down her nose at Theon, every inch a northern queen. “Apologize for murdering Bran and Rickon.”

Theon choked on his words as he managed to comply with her command. Nodding at him, she turned to Ramsay for approval. He narrowed his eyes at her, still unsure of who she was. _Good_.

“There,” Ramsay offered. Had he been more familiar with her, she believed he would have chucked her under the chin. “Doesn’t everyone feel better? I know that I do.”

Roose and his wife sighed in relief. Clearly, they felt better now that this sham was completed. Sansa was reminded of Joffrey’s wedding, of how he had dwarves act out the battle of the five kings and make a public spectacle out of her brother’s murder. Her chest tightened at the memory. She comforted herself by remembering that at the end of the wedding feast, Joffrey was choking on his own blood.

Perhaps her intended was not satisfied with her response. Perhaps it had been his plan all along. Or maybe he was just testing the depth of her hatred. She had seen how her anger had excited him. Maybe he would enjoy a bride that was brought before the heart tree screaming with rage.

“You know what, my lady? What with him having murdered Bran and Rickon and… _the rest of your family gone…_ ”

Said so nonchalantly, she nearly spit. Her eyes snapped to Roose’s, staring down at the man who had betrayed her mother and Robb, who had helped to murdered them in cold blood. His gaze was unapologetic, but he shifted in his chair, uncomfortable that they were acknowledging this nasty truth between them. In this moment, the two of them were entirely alone in the room. She looked him up and down, trying to understand how her mother could have ever trusted such a man. Roose was observing her in turn, no doubt comparing her to Catelyn and considering how like her mother she was.

She wondered if he knew that fish, unlike most species, could survive in icy waters and come alive after being frozen. Venomous fish tended to either be extremely colorful to attract the eye, or skillfully camouflaged as something as innocuous as a rock… or a lady.

She could never be the woman her mother was. A part of Sansa died to acknowledge this, but it was true.

Ice water ran in her veins. 

She had to be **better**.

“Reek!” Ramsay called out, startling both she and Roose out of the moment. Frantically, she tried to remember what it was that the bastard had been saying, but she drew a blank.

Luckily, her misstep was mistaken for distress by her intended, an emotion she quickly deduced he enjoyed causing. 

“Reek, you will give away the bride!” Ramsay looked back and forth between her and Theon, drinking in their expressions. “Someone has to. What better person?” He grinned like a child. “Good? Good?”

“Yes, yes. Very good.” Roose chimed in, sounding all together bored with this. Sansa considered his disdain.

Obviously Roose was just as brutal, having betrayed her brother and orchestrated the murder of men he had fought beside, but for him, violence was a means to an end. She wasn’t sure if he enjoyed it or not, it was just simply a tool he would not hesitate to use if needed. Ramsay, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy causing pain, especially in a public forum. Humiliation excited him. A chill ran down her spine.

_Meryn, my lady is overdressed. Unburden her._

“Wonderful,” Ramsay said, grabbing his goblet.

Roose may be disgusted by his son’s actions, but it was clear he would never curtail Ramsay’s inclinations unless they threatened his position as Warden.

_Leave her face. I like her pretty._

Before it could reach his lips, Sansa placed her hand over his at the table. She hoped his skin froze where theirs met. Shock was evident on his face, and she was sure if she were to look at Roose, he would also bear this expression.

Fleetingly, she wondered where this courage had come from.

“Grant your bride one wish this night,” Sansa enticed, toying with the edges of his sleeve.

From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

Trapped in his own game, or perhaps merely intrigued, he responded, “You have but to ask.”

“He may escort me to the godswood, as you wish,” she glanced up at him through her lashes, the picture of womanly innocence. “But on one condition.”

They both knew that her condition was pointless and that the matter was settled, but his curiosity got the best of him. What could she possibly ask for?

He leaned into her, calling her bluff. Ramsay turned his hand over underneath hers and entwined his fingers with hers. “Anything, my lady.”

Running her tongue along the back of her teeth, she grinned up at him. “Gift me the hound of my choosing.”

The tension in his hand was immediate. She pulled the air in the room in through her mouth and she could practically taste his desire and anger. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to claw his eyes out with her bare hands.

Turning back to her meal, she speared the last bite on her plate. “I do so long for a hunt.”

Her eyes met Ramsay’s as she ripped into the meat as gleefully as she would tear out his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather like Martin, I’m letting this story rise organically. I want to expand on some canon moments before diverting from them fully. Because I am interested in allowing the characters to expand and I am not limited by episode time, I am spacing out the events prior to Sansa and Ramsay’s wedding.  
> Each set of dialogue that I work through has so many opportunities for further characterization that to have the scenes play out at the same pace as the show seems extremely rushed. Rather, I am going to give each beat the chance to breathe on its own. Some things may also be done slightly out of order in interest of having a smoother flow.
> 
> Extra points for catching the ASoIF quote.


	3. Three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa contemplates the change within her as the threat of her impending wedding draws near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Thank you for your beautiful comments and suggestions, I take them all to heart and appreciate each one. Thank you.  
> I’m a bit put out because I wrote two chapters and they were GORGEOUS but, of course, they somehow got deleted by my computer along with some notes on how I was going to proceed. I have a few more chapters already written, but I may take a little break from writing because I just keep getting upset that what I write now is not as good as what I had. I'm also in the midst of finals and current events often have me away from my computer.  
> Anyway, as I said with the previous chapters, please comment – I do respond to all my comments—and feel free to offer suggestions or quotes about wolves you really love and I may use them! I am beginning to have a definite feel for where the end of this will be, it’s just a matter of filling in the space between.

**Three.**

_“The wolves in the woods have sharp teeth and long claws, but it's the wolf inside who will tear you apart.” -_ **Jennifer Donnelly**

The wedding was set for two days time. Long enough for some of the Bolton banner men to gather, although she figured that it had more to do with the proximity of Stannis Baratheon than it did the Bolton bastard’s wedding.

Glancing out the window of her childhood room into the darkness of the night, Sansa let her thoughts wander to her brother, Jon. Stannis was said to be at Castle Black although the Night’s Watch were known to be a neutral party. She hoped he was well, that he was surviving the hell of Westeros better than she was.

At least Jon never went south, he stayed in the north where Stark men belonged. He hadn’t had to deal with King’s Landing or the twisted politics that had thoroughly engulfed her with every intention of beating her into eternal submission. But, slowly—too slowly at times—she was learning how to master this game she had been forced to play. Still, she wouldn’t wish her circumstances on her siblings and prayed they were somewhere safe from the game of thrones.

Moving to sit in front of her vanity, Sansa observed herself. The dark hair was still startling. The first time she saw it, she stared at herself for long time, wondering if this is what she would have looked like had she favored her father’s looks. She had always thought that she and Arya looked nothing alike, but now she could see the resemblance. She touched her reflection, wishing it was Arya’s face instead of cool glass.

Their last words had been angry ones, as conversations between them always seemed to be. Joffrey told her that Arya was dead, no matter what Tywin Lannister proclaimed. But Sansa knew better. Arya had too much wolf in her. If anyone was going to survive, it was her. She wondered if her sister thought of her too, and she could only hope that it was in kindness. Her regret and guilt made her stomach like a stone, weighing her down. Suddenly Sansa couldn’t bear to look at herself any longer. Turning away, she walked back to the window and observed the moon.

She noticed that Littlefinger did not seem to enjoy her company quite as much with her dark hair, although she engaged his conversation more frequently in order to sharpen her mind. Sansa felt so changed from the last time she spoke to Petyr. Her lips burned at the memory. She had let him kiss her again.

He confused her. She was so sure that he had intended on keeping her for his own. Petyr’s eyes on her body had not felt so dissimilar to that of Joffrey’s… or of Ramsay’s for that matter. The heavy gaze of ownership, like a brand on her skin. Why would Littlefinger give her to Ramsay? What would he have to gain from such a move?

It was like trying to figure out how to duplicate a dress she had seen only once, trying to figure out how the pattern pieces fit together with no instruction, how to drape the fabric so it would fall the exact same way. Playing with the needle around her neck, she mentally began to tug the fabric this way and that.

The naïve girl she had been would think Petyr did it because he loved her mother, because he wanted to give her back her home, because Winterfell has been her fondest wish since her father lost his head. But Littlefinger would have nothing to gain from it.

Going over the conversation in the crypt, she stumbled upon another piece of the pattern. He had said that when Lord Stannis takes Winterfell, she would be made Wardeness, a position that would be very valuable to Littlefinger. Not to mention that he would think that Stannis would be indebted to him for returning a Stark to the north, and thus all the men loyal to the Starks.

_Then why not deliver her directly to Stannis?_ Castle Black was not much farther from here.

_Jon was there_. Sansa pursed her lips. The pattern pieces fit together, but poorly. While she imagined that Jon was a deterrent, he would not be the only reason Littlefinger would not take the direct route. Littlefinger said that Stannis’s victory was assured unless…

_Unless it wasn’t._

The fabric slid into place, draping across the lie that Littlefinger had crafted for her. If Stannis didn’t win, and she was at Castle Black, Littlefinger would gain nothing. But, by marrying her to Ramsay, she was in line to be Wardeness either way. If Stannis won, it would be because he liberated her from the Boltons. If he lost, it would be as next in line as the wife of Roose’s only heir, the now naturalized Ramsay Bolton.

She had no doubt that he would have married her to Roose if he hadn’t already been wed.

Sansa sank her hands into the snow that had settled on the ledge of her window, letting the cold sink into her bones. Fond of her as he may be, Petyr would still use her if it meant a better opportunity for himself. She grit her teeth as she admitted that some part of her was disappointed. While she didn’t exactly _want_ Petyr’s attentions, she had appreciated that he was protecting her. It was nice to be protected, to feel safe.

_No one can protect anyone,_ she thought.

As if crying out in solidarity, a long sharp howl pierced the air. Sansa’s gaze flit to the kennels as she appreciated the beauty of her song, before the other hounds joined in chorus. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear the howls of wolves in the distance, but that was only her imagination. Her heart ached for want of Lady, but somehow, she felt closer to her now than she had since Lady was taken from her.

Before Littlefinger came upon her, she had visited Lady’s bones. Her father had sent them back north while they were still on the road to King’s Landing and they had been buried next to her Aunt Lyanna and subsequently next to the place reserved for her father.

Something had changed when she knelt before Lady. She felt different, had acted different ever since the moment she had pressed her lips to stone and whispered broken apologies to the other part of herself. She felt stronger, somehow, almost primal. And it wasn’t just that the act of violence that now seemed so much more acceptable, but the violence of her thoughts. The game that Littlefinger had taught her suddenly became much easier because cruelty felt much closer to her than ever before.

She had never been a violent person or even an angry person. Sansa had her share of temper tantrums, to be sure, but she was quicker to cry than to rage. Her anger was always an ice-cold thing. Now, she felt ferocious, ravenous, feral almost. There was an animal within her that had come alive.

Arya had laughed at the fact she had named her direwolf Lady, and truly her wolf did seem to act more human than wolf, if only to please her. Now it seemed she needed to be more wolf than lady in order to survive.

Especially when it came to her new husband.

Her throat closed when she thought of what was to be expected from her two nights from now, and for every night after. The consuming fear left her breathless, and closing her eyes only put her screaming helpless in an alley while angry men she’d never met decided to punish her for everything wrong in the world. _If the Hound hadn’t saved her…_

The hounds.

Sansa was suddenly desperate for the feeling of clarity she had standing in the kennels. She grabbed her heavy blue dressing gown and pulled it on over her shift, tracing the direwolves and trout that she had painstakingly embroidered onto the Tully blue fabric. Magda had let her hair down for the evening, but Sansa didn’t bother to put on a cap. She opened her door and glanced at the seemingly empty hallway before moving quietly down the stairs. Someone may be following her, but it didn’t matter.

Stepping into the unabashed cold of the courtyard, Sansa didn’t even shiver. The cold was part of her, she could taste the steel of it on her tongue. Winter was very close now, breathing down their necks. She wondered how aware Roose was of this.

_Winter is coming._

The kennels were unlocked. Only a madman would enter and try to steal Ramsay’s dogs. Sansa amused herself with the image of Myranda sleeping in a cage too, just like Ramsay’s other toy, Reek ( _Theon. He killed your brothers)._ Looking the first of the beasts in the face, she banished the thought. Myranda would never be as fierce as these she-hounds.

Again, she was astounded by the silence. Sansa did not know these animals, but she knew their reputation. Magda had told her all that she had heard about Ramsay’s hunting excursions. They should be barking, snapping, growling at her. Even the most docile of dogs often showed aggression towards a stranger in their territory. Instead, the dogs fell silent when she stepped into their view. It was so strange, and yet…

She looked at the first cage. A bloodhound was staring back at her, nose twitching frantically as she took in Sansa’s scent. She recognized the breed from her childhood and knew that her father had used bloodhounds on a hunt before. They could follow a scent for over a hundred miles and rarely led their master astray. It meant that no matter where she went, Ramsay would have a way to find her.

_Unless_ they came to serve a different master. Sansa took a step toward the hound but before she got close, she heard a yip. Looking over, it was the alpha female from this morning. Her coat was black as coal, glistening in the moonlight. Sansa looked back to the dog she was standing in front of, but it had laid down and would not meet her gaze.

“I suppose that means I’m supposed to greet you first,” she whispered, walking towards the Alpha. A tail wag was her only response.

She met the dog’s gaze head on. There was a tension in that moment, and the dog showed a hint of teeth, but Sansa just stepped closer, towering over her. Finally, the dog broke its gaze and sat quietly, head tucked into its chest and ears pressed back.

_Submission._

Sansa hummed quietly. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve the honor, but I appreciate you giving it to me none the less.”

Slowly, she approached the cage until she was standing right in front of it. The dog could easily reach through the bars and bite her if she wanted to, but she just whined quietly and waited.

Sansa was wrong before. The dog’s coat wasn’t black, but a dark slate grey. It was the color the walls of Winterfell would turn in the rain.

Slowly, she reached through the cage and finally ran her fingers through the dogs hair, her wrist coming to run along the dogs neck.

Just as hesitantly as Sansa moved, so did the dog. She turned her head and licked at Sansa’s palm. She took a moment, as if considering the human’s scent and taste before staring long and hard at Sansa. Finally, she turned her head and bumped Sansa’s hand, silently asking to be pet again.

“Your master has left you all alone, hasn’t he?” she whispered. The dog moved closer, pressing into the cage bars in an effort to be closer to her. Sansa knelt to her level, settling in. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you the story of a wounded wolf.”

…

Early the next morning, the sky still pitch black and most of the castle still abed, Sansa rose and dressed herself in a simple gown before slipping into the kitchens. Of course, the cook and kitchen maids were already awake and preparing for the day, and her presence startled them. She apologized and politely, yet firmly refused their offers of assistance.

“Are you sure I can’t help you with something, m’lady?” the cook asked, exasperated and confused as to what Lady Stark was doing in his kitchen.

Sansa smiled. “Actually, there is one thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having “historically accurate” clothes for a fantasy show is difficult, but I did try to honor the styles I saw within the show. That being said, I am not a fashion historian (or a historian whatsoever). [The blue dressing gown I imagined looks like this one, with white direwolves and trout embroidered on it instead of the floral pattern.](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/f0/17/07/f0170726bd97c4cf81edb3c9e5046836.jpg)
> 
> If is unclear, Magda is the Northern servant from the show that tells Sansa about the candle and that the North remembers and sadly is the victim to Ramsay’s violence. I liked her quite a bit in the show, so I decided to include her in more scenes.
> 
> Lastly, a quick word about this version of Sansa. I think D&D did her wrong in Season 5 as they spent all of the seasons prior showing Sansa coming into her own and learning how to “play the game.” I have decided to use her infamous _porcelain, ivory, steel_ transformation as well as the Stark/wolf mysticism that features more fully in the books. That being said, she is not impervious. I am doing my best **not** to give her the “Mary Sue” treatment. We all were rooting for Sansa to come out stronger and unscathed, but she isn’t Daenerys walking through the flames. She is fearful, frightened, flawed, and will change and warp with the events of Season 5. She will make mistakes. I hope that I still managed to capture her vulnerabilities as well as her strength. 
> 
> Extra points if you note the influence/quote for the later part in the chapter.


	4. Four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day before Sansa's wedding, she takes steps to rebuild her childhood home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter take place the day before Sansa's wedding, but contains dialogue from 5x6: _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_

**Four.**

_“Let any pretty girl announce a divorce… and the wolves come running. Fresh meat for the beast, and they are always hungry.” **– Hedy Lamarr**_

“You surprise me.”

Sansa turned, stepping away from the workers.

Ramsay stood watching her, hands tucked innocently behind his back, his smile a warning. She didn’t know what would be more terrifying: to see Ramsay screaming or to see him laughing.

“How is that, my lord?” she asked, curtesy always her first choice of defense.

He stepped closer to her and she could smell his scent on the wind. The tang of blood and something sickly sweet, like syrup coating the back of her throat. She wanted to scrape her teeth in the snow.

“You’ve been here but a day, but already you have done so much good.” He gestures to the remains of the glass gardens that workers were now clearing in advance of repairs. “You enjoy gardening?”

Sansa met his gaze with a shy smile. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

Ramsay’s eyebrow raised and his grin deepened. He had dimples. She imagined he would be quite handsome if he weren’t so hideous in every other way.

Sansa let her gaze linger for a moment, before breaking to turn back to the gardens. Let him think she was innocent to the game they were playing.

“My father tells me that Lord Baelish arranged for glass to be brought here.” Ramsay stepped close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. “He also brought quite a few lemons with him.”

“Yes, Lord Baelish is very generous. We are lucky to have such an important ally,” Sansa replied.

“We are,” Ramsay agreed, his eyes piercing. “My father also tells me Lord Baelish is the one who rescued you from Kings Landing. You must be very close.”

Sansa stepped carefully, like a steel trap were hidden beneath the snow. “Yes. He loved my mother.”

Ramsay traced the outline of her arm, just whispering past her flesh. Goosebumps broke out along her skin beneath her clothes. Her arm burned.

“He must love _you_.”

Sansa observed him, carefully concealing her fear. Lysa Arryn had said the same thing, and her rage was a terrifying thing to behold. It was the conversation that betrayed her aunt’s true nature, her madness and obsession. Ramsay was mad too; of that she had no doubt. But he would never allow a person to become his focus. People were dispensable playthings to Ramsay. Sadism was his one and only love.

She twisted her face into an expression of confusion. “I would not know, my lord. I believe he rescued me for my mother and returned me to my home as she would have wished.”

“And would she have wished for you to marry me?” he asked, stroking down her arm this time. She wanted to flinch away, she wanted to scratch out his eyes.

She looked down and managed a blush. Let him think it was embarrassment and not anger.

A truth, she decided, would be more beneficial than a falsehood. “I think that my mother understood the benefit of a political marriage. She understood a woman’s duty. As I do.”

“A woman’s duty,” Ramsay smiled, amused. He grasped her hand in his, turning it this way and that. To an observer, they must appear as young lover’s becoming acquainted with each other. Her hand clasped in his, his smile sweet and amused. Her expression one of a demure maiden, embarrassed and flustered.

But to her, the threat was clear. She had noticed that Theon was missing fingers. How gently had Ramsay held his hand before carving them off?

“You were married before. To the Imp.” He held her hand palm up, lightly tracing her pinky with the other. “My father said you’re still a virgin.”

Her throat closed. Sansa glanced around the open courtyard, but the workers carried on, too far from them to overhear, but close enough to entrap them in the guise of a man and his betrothed. She didn’t know whether she was relieved or not to have them near. Their presence protected and entrapped her.

“Yes,” she whispered finally.

She hated the look on his face. Myranda had the same expression, as though there were some great joke planned at her expense. She could practically feel Sir Meryn’s hand on her face.

“Why?” Ramsay asked, taking a step closer. She could taste his breath. Bile burned her throat.

“Why are you still a virgin? Afraid of dwarves?” He laughed and she could feel every hair on her body stand erect.

“L-Lord Tyrion was kind. He was gentle.” Mentally, Sansa cursed as the little girl that was came to the forefront. Her fear regressing all that she had learned. She could have smacked herself for responding in such a way.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she schooled her expression into one that Margaery would affect with Joffrey. She was her best teacher in how to handle her betrothed.

She looked up through her lashes at him, offering a rueful smile. “But I was not to his taste. He preferred women who were more… _experienced_. So he never touched me.”

Ramsay returned her smile, clasping their hands together and pulling them to his breast. She took note that to observers, it looked to be a gesture of love and admiration. In actuality, he had twisted her wrist and was placing just enough pressure on it that it was painful to her in a way that could be incidental.

“You aren’t lying to me, are you?” More pressure, and he tugged her closer. She fought to keep her breathing calm and even. “Lying to your husband on the eve of his wedding, that would be a bad way to start a marriage.”

“No, my lord,” she responded, refusing to break eye contact. His eyes were the color of dirty ice.

And just like that, Ramsay released her hand. “Good. I believe you.”

He smiled at her like she had performed an impressive trick and cupped her cheek. The urge to turn and bite into the meat of his palm was so strong that she began salivating. He leaned into her and pressed a kiss to her lips. Automatically Sansa’s hand came up to push him away, but she forced herself to grasp his shoulder instead, nails biting down.

When Ramsay pulled away, he glanced at his shoulder in surprise and then back at her, delighted. “We are to be man and wife. We should be honest with each other. Don’t you agree?”

Her eyes sharpened. “Of course, my lord.”

Ramsay hummed to himself in response and pulled away. As he left, the sense of relief was immediate. But the animal in Sansa refused to turn her back on him. It turned out to be a good instinct. Ramsay turned back to her and tilted his head.

“Tomorrow, you may have your pick of the hounds. But I do have a caveat.”

She mimicked his earlier expression, one of parent humoring a child. “Yes?”

“My bitches are very loyal to me. Each one is special.” If Sansa didn’t know any better, she would think he was actually fond of the beasts. “The one you choose has to pick you as its master.”

“Of course,” she replied. “I would expect no less.”

“Good.” Finally finished with her, he turned away. “I shall see you at dinner, my lady.”

Sansa imagined he’d have another game planned for her by then. Taking a breath, she turned back to the site where the glass gardens once stood. It would be cleared in a day or so, and soon the glass would arrive from the vale. Then, she could begin growing things, and life would return to Winterfell at last.


	5. Five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before her wedding, Sansa endures a new test from Ramsay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place the night before Sansa's wedding and the events of 5x6: _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_ , but contains dialogue from 5x5: _Kill the Boy_. As previously mentioned, some conversations would be taken out of order or spread out as needed to give more body to the story and give the characters more room to grow and respond.

**Five.**

_“In politics you must always keep running with the pack. The moment that you falter and they sense that you are injured, the rest will turn on you like wolves.”_

― R. A. Butler

Sansa nodded to the servants she passed on the way to her room. One of them held her gaze and she vaguely recognized them. She smiled and they returned it. Good. Another person loyal to the north.

Opening the door to her room, she was met with the site of Myranda hanging gowns up in her armoire.

“What are you doing?” Sansa asked, her voice as sharp as a knife.

“Forgive me, my lady.” A clumsy curtsey, a teasing smile. “Ramsay found these gowns and thought you might like them. I had told him about your skill with a needle.”

“That was kind of him. I shall have to thank him when I see him.” Sansa lingered in the doorway, but Myranda stayed in place. “I didn’t know there were any dressmakers so close.”

“Oh no.” A jackal’s grin. “Ramsay believes these belonged to your mother.”

The room froze. Myranda’s expression hiccupped for a moment as ice slipped down her spine. But her smile stayed in place. Some animals were too confident to recognize a threat when they saw one.

It was clear to Sansa that she could never make an ally out of Myranda and she certainly couldn’t be trusted. Margaery’s charisma would be completely ineffective against her, and Littlefinger’s methodology was too advanced a tool to work. Instead, it was the Cersei in her that came forth.

The wolf channeled the lion queen and looked down at Myranda with patronizing contempt.

“I see.” She slowly stalked forward, eyeing her from top to bottom, before she came to a stop in front of her. The smile she offered was sugary sweet cruelty. She flicked her gaze to the gowns. “Do you like them?”

“Of course. We only managed to save a few but it’s so strange to think what she may have worn last. I mean, none of these are the gowns she traveled with…” _Or died in_ , was the implication, “but it should give you some comfort to have something that was hers. It is an honor.”

Ramsay would have her dress in her mother’s clothes before the man that betrayed and murdered her.

Sansa reached out and touched the sleeve of the dress Myranda was holding. “It is good for you to see what a true lady would wear. It is a shame that you will never know what it is to be a lady, but it should give you some comfort to be able to serve one.” Her smile was the thousands of swords melted into the iron throne. “It is an honor, as you said.”

_There it is_ , Littlefinger hissed in her ear. The crack in Myranda that she could sink her claws into. Her blood was howling with rage, but every inch of her read cool detachment.

“This dress will do for dinner. Send in a servant who actually knows how to dress a lady, please.”

Unlike Ramsay, Sansa easily turned her back on Myranda—a clear dismissal.

It was not that the girl wasn’t a threat. She knew that Myranda’s anger was likely a volatile thing, but she was trapped within the same rules as Sansa. She had to wait for the permission of a man. And Myranda would never harm her without permission of her master. Truly, she was no different than any of the other bitches in the kennel: dangerous, but owned.

And Sansa was a wolf.

…

Dinner was surprisingly uneventful. If Roose took note of her wearing her mother’s gowns, he said nothing of it. She doubted he knew her mother intimately enough to know her wardrobe. Rather, she imagined that it was meant to be an internal humiliation, a mockery of her mother.

Sansa wore the gown with pride.

There was a moment when Magda was dressing her where Sansa began to weep. Some of the stitching was coming undone from the embroidery on the sleeve, the river pattern she knew her mother had painstakingly stitched by hand. One of the last things her mother had created was coming undone and she would never be able to fix it.

“No tears, m’lady,” Magda ordered. She grasped Sansa by the shoulders and forced her to stand up straight. Magda reminded her of Old Nan. She reminded her of someone her parents would choose to take care of her. 

Magda’s callous worn finger was rough on her face when she brushed away her tears. “These shite’s aren’t worth the salt.”

Sansa let out a phlegmy laugh, startled at her candor, but the woman was all seriousness. She gently adjusted the gown onto Sansa’s form. The dress was ill-fitting. She was surprised to find she was quite a bit taller than her mother, and her time in Kings Landing had made her quite a bit thinner as well. Still, it was her mother’s clothes. Her mother’s **armor**.

Magda grasped her chin. “Do her proud.”

Sitting at the table now with Ramsay beside her, she was every inch the Lady of Winterfell.

“Everything is in place for your wedding tomorrow night,” Roose said, eyeing Sansa before looking at his son. “I imagine you are going to hunt tomorrow morning for the feast?”

“Yes,” Ramsay replied. “A husband provides for his wife.”

“You must be making preparations as well,” Lady Bolton offered, worriedly glancing at Roose. He merely inclined his head, allowing her room to speak. “I understand you’ve been working on your gown.”

Walda’s earnest nature was completely out of place, but Sansa offered a small smile of encouragement. This girl was not her family. “Yes. A bride should look lovely on her wedding day.”

“And have you prepared in other ways?” Ramsay asked, sipping slowly on his wine. “I imagine your mother has told you what is expected of you on your wedding night. If not, I am sure that my mother would be _glad_ to speak with you.”

Walda immediately looked uncomfortable, but unsure of how to refuse. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before Sansa put her out of her misery.

“You are kind to offer, but my mother and Queen Cersei have both educated me on a wife’s duty to her husband.”

Cersei in her chambers _Love no one but your children. On that front a mother has no choice._ And again, during the Battle of Blackwater, _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one is between your legs._

“Yes. Family. Duty. Honor,” Ramsay mocked before raising his glass in a toast. “Tomorrow we will become a family, and House Stark will become no more.”

Sansa truly wondered if her betrothed hoped she would murder him at the dinner table. Ramsay was gleeful once more, his disappointment in her lack of response to her wardrobe forgotten.

“With your brothers dead and your sister gone, you are the last remaining Stark,” he explained. “And tomorrow, you will become a Bolton.”

Littlefinger would be proud of the smile she arranged on her face. Sansa raised her glass in a toast, “Our blades are sharp.”

“Our blades are sharp,” they echoed, Ramsay’s eyes never leaving hers.

“Walda and I have some good news as well, since we’re all together,” Roose declared, looking at his wife.

For a moment, confusion twisted Walda’s face before she lit up in understanding. Turning to smile at the others, she said, “We’re going to have a baby.”

The effect on Ramsay was immediate. Sansa looked over at him and imagined her face had not looked so dissimilar when he had forced Theon to apologize to her.

It appeared that although his blades were sharp, his father’s were sharper.

Not missing a beat, Sansa offered her congratulations. “I’m very happy for you.”

“From the way she’s carrying, Maester Wolken says it looks like a boy.”

Roose looked positively joyful as Ramsay swallowed the rest of his wine in one mouthful. It was clear now where Ramsay’s cruelty came from. His father was far more skilled at the game of thrones and knew the power of lying in wait until the moment was right. Her mother and brother had died because of it.

Luckily, while Roose was likely suspicious of her, he did not expect her to be much of a threat to his position. She was all but at his mercy now, with no one from the Vale to protect her. He clearly felt comfortable enough to announce Walda’s pregnancy. If he was truly worried about ramifications, he would have kept it a secret as long as he could.

Instead, he announced her pregnancy with joy, knowing that Ramsay would be threatened that his claim on Winterfell and Warden of the North would be weakened. Indeed, Roose Bolton had weakened his hold on Ramsay by holding his unborn child’s status above his legitimized bastard son. Clearly he didn’t think his son was much of a threat to him either.

Littlefinger whispered in her ear as she began to see the patterns of all the different ways House Bolton could fall.

After all, blades were ineffective weapons against the winter.

And winter was coming for House Bolton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but I wanted to set up for the day of her wedding.
> 
> What I loved about Sansa’s POV in the book, and what Sophie Turner utilized in part in her interpretation of the character, is that Sansa is very much an amalgamation of the various political figures she has come in contact with. In a way, she not so dissimilar from Arya as Sansa has learned how to use the “many faces” of methodology and politics that she’s come in contact with and how to use of the weapons that have been used against her. 
> 
> I am doing my best to balance her political savvy with her youth, but it is difficult considering the circumstances her character has been through.
> 
> Some dialogue was stolen from Orphan Black. If you know the series, I admittedly crafted Magda’s persona around that of the OB character Kendall Malone.


	6. Six.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the morning of her wedding, Sansa chooses a hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying something a little risky by offering a brief glimpse into Ramsay’s POV. He is so difficult to get just right; I hope I do him justice. Please note that in this chapter, there is some reference to rape. Although it is expected in a fiction of this kind, "Ramsay is his own warning", I wanted my rewaders to be aware that there is some reference to sexual violence in this chapter.
> 
> This chapter takes place the morning of Sansa's wedding as seen in 5x6: _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_.

**Six.**

_“Throw me to the wolves and I’ll return leading the pack.”_

― Suzanne Collins

The sound of the hounds was catastrophic and the walls of Winterfell only amplified the noise. Ramsay swung down from his horse, Blood, with its namesake beneath his nails. He carelessly handed the reins to the stable hand and called forth the nearest house servant.

“Where is my bride? I want her to see the beasts I have killed in her honor!” he declared, gesturing to the moose being carried in.

“She’s in the kitchens, m’lord, preparing the deer you sent ahead of you,” the servant responded, keeping his eyes in the mud.

“ _Preparing_ the deer?” Ramsay stalked past the servant into the castle, headed towards where he imagined the kitchen would be.

He had to give credit to his bride for attempting to poison them all at dinner, but she certainly wasn’t smart about it. Idly, he wondered what method she had chosen. Perhaps the same one she had used on her boy prince?

Sadly, Ramsay wasn’t very familiar with poisons although he was intrigued by them. His mother had been the one to supply him with the drug that killed his half-brother. It was the only vengeance she had ever known in her sad existence. Poisons were a woman’s weapon; he would much rather inflict the pain on his intended victim himself and not leave it to chemicals.

Imagine his surprise when he entered the kitchen to find Sansa skillfully peeling back the skin from the deer he had slaughtered earlier. For a beginner, her knifework was precise and even. She looked up and nearly dropped the knife on the floor.

“My lord! Forgive me, I had no idea you were returning so soon,” she attempted a curtsey and then stopped herself, an embarrassed look coming to her face.

Ramsay observed that she wore oversleeves that were clearly stained with blood, and an apron smeared with viscera and gore. Still, her happenstance of being “found” in the kitchen skinning a deer rang false.

“I had no idea you possessed such a skill. I came to find you to have you select your hound, but now I’m afraid they may devour you after the thrill of the hunt.”

Only **he** would be the one to devour her.

“I confess I have been taking lessons,” Sansa said, all contrite. “As my lord is so fond of a hunt, it seemed only right that your wife would be able to prepare the game you killed.”

He stepped closer to her, amused. He doubted that her hand would be as steady if he asked her to carve into a live thing, screaming for mercy the whole time. To him, there was no greater music. For her, he imagined it would be unbearable.

“Show me.”

Slowly, Sansa turned back to the deer and pulled back the flesh she had already successfully removed from the musculature beneath. She continued her work, slicing along the sides, pulling up more flesh. Ramsay came to stand behind her and to her credit, her breath only hitched for a moment before she continued on. His wife had more grit than he anticipated. Still, it would make breaking her all the sweeter. His hands rested first on her shoulders, then slid down her arms until his hand was over hers on the knife. His other hand came around to grasp her hip.

Though dead, there was something arousing by watching his innocent little wife slice into a body. The blood stained her pretty white hands, an offense to her delicate stature as a Lady. He looked forward to sullying her in every way.

For a moment, Ramsay was hit with the impulse to bend her over the disemboweled beast and take her maidenhead here and now. What a fitting way to break in his bride. The urge was so strong he had to grit his teeth to press it down. All good things to those who wait.

Still, he was sure Sansa could feel the evidence of his excitement pressed against her. The change in her breathing pattern gave her away.

“If you adjust your hold on the blade so it rests this way,” he whispered in her ear, as ardent as a lover, “it will carve much smoother.”

She turned to look at him, their faces only a breath away. “I haven’t made a mess of things, have I? I am only a beginner.”

Ramsay smiled. “You are doing well.”

She paused in her work and turned more fully to face him. “Have I displeased you? I only thought to surprise my lord.”

“Oh, I am surprised. I admit, I never thought to see you so willing.” He deftly removed the knife from her hands and pressed the flat of it to her cheek. “But from now on, you will learn directly from me. No more sneaking behind my back. We have spoken on honesty before.”

Slowly, she brought her bloody hand to his face, a mirror of the knife on her cheek. “I will be a loyal wife to you, Ramsay. I am eager to learn.”

A shudder went through him the first time she used his given name. She was tricky, his wife, and what better challenge for him. And what a better game for him to play? A bastard married to a lady, one from a great house, a great house his family had personally dismantled and pissed on. This was the perfect revenge for the bastard that was raped into his mother’s womb, forgotten and shunned.

“Your first lesson as a wife will begin tonight. I look forward to seeing how _eager you are to learn._ ” He tapped her cheek gently with the blade before smiling. “But I promise, I’ll be gentle as it is your first time.”

Sansa swallowed thickly, betraying her nerves, although her thumb found its way under his jaw. If she tightened her grip, she could strangle him. His smile deepened- she had matched his threat with a threat. _Interesting_.

“My lord is as generous as he is kind.” She cocked her head, “Shall we see to the hounds?”

He slid the flat of the blade across her cheek, smearing blood in its wake. He rather liked the look of her face covered in blood. Ramsay knew that he wouldn’t be able to mark her pretty face, he needed it. Plus, Myranda was so focused on the beauty of her competitors and Sansa was very much Myranda’s superior in both beauty and stature. He wanted to see the rage simmer under his favorite bitch’s skin.

Sansa remained perfectly still under his blade, her eyes only glancing down once before meeting his gaze head on. Her fear was still evident, although she did her best to hide it. The struggle was always the most delicious part. Hooking the blade behind the corner of her jaw, he used it to pull her face to his. In return, he felt her hand squeeze around his throat. Perhaps in response to the pain or out of fear, or perhaps she was making good on her threat. Ramsay allowed the bite of the blade to remain until he could sink his teeth into her bottom lip.

He kissed her as if to consume her. When he pulled away, he could have laughed. His instinct proved correct. As terrified as she was of his violence, it was his lust that truly frightened his bride. Tonight was going to be fun.

“Now, go change and clean yourself up before you come out.” He imagined how many times he would say the same sentence to her in the coming days. Perhaps throwing her mother’s gown on the floor with no other linens, so she would have to choose whether to wipe his seed off of her with Catelyn Stark’s clothes or to come to dinner with the humiliation of feeling it cool between her thighs.

Stepping away, he stabbed the blade into the nearest table. “My hounds are already bloodthirsty from the hunt. For you to arrive outside looking so, you won’t survive until tonight.”

Tilting his head at her, he looked her up and down before smiling like a man besotted. “How lovely you look.”

Then he was returning back outside, and Ramsay couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.

“Don’t keep me waiting!”

…

Sansa barely managed to lock the door to her room before vomiting into her chamber pot.

…

Soon after, Sansa emerged from Winterfell as though it were of her own volition. She bit down into the half-eaten apple in her hand as she surveyed the courtyard, where the hounds were snapping at everything within their reach. Ramsay was leaning against the wall, laughing with Myranda at how servants were practically tripping all over themselves to keep their distance.

“This is all of them?” she asked above the din, chewing slowly on the apple. She thought the scent of mint would be too obvious in covering the smell of bile. She applauded herself for managing to swallow the apple when the contents of her stomach threatened to make another appearance.

“All but one,” Ramsay replied. Looking towards the open gates, he put his fingers in his mouth a whistled. The dogs at his feet barked and rallied, but there was no response from the woods.

Ben Bones, the kennel master came forth, walking towards his master.

“It’s no use, m’lord. Alison’s caught the scent of a wolf,” he offered.

“Ah!” Ramsay responded, looking excited rather than annoyed. He grinned openly at her. “Alison has been quite consumed with the urge to kill a wolf since the last time she sunk her teeth into one.” He smiled like a proud father. “She is truly bloodthirsty, that one.”

“You’ve trained them to hunt wolves?” Sansa asked.

“Oh yes, m’lady,” Ben replied. “But Alison and Red Jeyne are the only ones to have succeeded. Red Jeyne sadly died in her last battle, but not before ripping the wolf’s bowels out.”

“That one there,” Myranda pointed to a younger bitch, heavy with pups, stained with mud and blood. “That is Jeyne’s pup. We’ve called her Grey Jeyne.”

“Perhaps she will live up to her mother’s legacy,” Sansa commented.

“She is due to whelp soon. We were thinking that you would like a pup,” Myranda coated her voice with honey. “Something soft and sweet would be befitting to a lady of your stature.”

_Something they could skin once she became attached._

Sansa returned Myranda’s smile with one of her own. “You said her name was Alison?”

Ramsay and Myranda shared a look, more jokes at her expense. “She was named after a companion of ours. We wanted to give her a proper tribute.”

_“Ramsay uses women as his prey.” Theon whispers to her in the dead of night. Sansa ignores him, now inside the Alpha’s cage with the dog’s head heavy in her lap. “He hunts them down, rapes them, and feeds their corpses to his dogs. If they lead him a good chase, he may name his next litter of bitches after them.”_

_Perhaps this was part of Ramsay’s plan to scare her into submission (although she had no doubt that he would make good on all his threats). The girl in her said that Theon was trying to warn her to be cautious, trying to keep her safe in the only way he had left._

_“Do what he says. Do what he says or he’ll hurt you.”_

Sansa tipped her head at them before holding the half-eaten apple out to Myranda to take. When she didn’t, Sansa pinned her with a stare that was all Cersei. Sansa merely tossed the apple core at her to catch before turning to the gates. She knew that Myranda would not have to play by the rules of a servant for very much longer, but she planned to take advantage of it while she could.

Walking past the border of her home, she observed the men at the edges of the forest, some even with raw meat in their hands to entice the hound back home.

Sansa smiled. Her alpha would not be tempted so.

_“She’s a Cane Corso, m’lady,” Ben told her, obviously surprised at her interest. She had come to the kennels to inquire after all the dogs. Since she was to choose one the following day, she knew that Ramsay would find no suspicion in her actions. Her intent was obvious._

_“She’s bred to hunt, especially the most difficult game. A combination of strength and brutality. I have been breeding her line since I was a whelp, m’self. She comes from generations of ruthless predators.” He pointed to the other dogs of the same breed. “They are her sisters and cousins.”_

_“I see there are no males,” Sansa observed, walking through the kennel._

_“Aye. Ramsay sells them to the highest bidder. He breeds his bitches with another hunter from the Dreadfort.”_

_Sansa raised an eyebrow but said no more. The reason he didn’t have any males around was obvious._

_The only Alpha of the pack would be Ramsay._

Standing before the forest, Sansa admired the beauty of her home. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for.

It was the Old Gods she turned to now.

“Alison! Come!” Sansa ordered, summoning the voice of her ancestors.

For a moment, nothing. The men around her snickered, not even bothering to hide their amusement. They saw a silly girl singing a song, too stupid to realize she had no authority here. _Good_ , she thought. _Let them underestimate me._

Then, a crack of a branch, some leaves crunching beneath feet.

Alison burst from the tree line at full speed, every inch a sleek predator. Faintly, she heard Ramsay whistle for her again, but Sansa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dog coming at her. If Alison meant to kill her, no one was close enough to prevent the carnage that would ensue. Strangely, she was not afraid. On the corners of her vision, she saw some of Ramsay’s men come forward. It wouldn’t do to have the bride mangled on the day of her wedding.

Alison came to a complete halt in front of her. Mouth open wide, swallowing cold air and tail at attention.

“Sit,” Sansa said, as though offering another lady to tea. The dog sat at her feet, waiting for her next command. She looked up and saw the shocked faces of Ramsay’s men. Her lips quirked before she turned back to her pet.

“Heel,” she ordered, walking back into her home. She didn’t need to glance beside her to see that Alison was keeping pace with her, just a half step behind in a show of deference. As she entered the courtyard, she tried not to laugh outright at the confused fury on Myranda’s face. She would never survive King’s Landing.

Finally, she came to a stop in front of Ramsay. He too was shocked, but he hid it better than his lover. Again, she could tell he was recalculating his thoughts, readjusting his plans. She shared a glance with Alison before she looked at the two, a secret smile on her lips.

“This one will do,” Sansa said, never skipping a beat. Glancing at Myranda, she added, “Thank you for the offer of one of Jeyne’s pups. I will be glad to add another hound to my litter.”

She offered her husband a bashful look, the picture of a humble winner. “You _did_ promise, my lord. And I’ve met the requirements of your caveat.”

“So I did,” Ramsay replied through gritted teeth, fighting with his irritation.

Sansa waited, teetering on a precipice. He could renege on his promise without consequence. The fresh gash behind her jaw was proof of it. There was no one here to protect her. By the time word reached Littlefinger, whatever damage that Ramsay wanted to do to her person would be done and then some. She had no power here, and she was not ignorant to it. Even now, she knew that she was a child playing with a blade, one false move and she could slice herself open.

“The bitch is yours, my lady,” Ramsay acquiesced, bending into the mockery of a bow.

For now, he is playing by the rules. Sansa knew she would pay for every slight.

Boldly she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the cheek that still stained from her bloody caress earlier. Ramsay turned his face and his lips whispered against hers, raising the stakes. His eyes were piercing, trying to figure her out.

“Thank you, husband,” she whispered, pulling away.

Ramsay snatched her hand, halting her movement. She could feel the tension in Alison behind her. Both of them glanced to see her hair standing on end and her lip beginning to curl back. It was a clear demonstration of her true master now.

Raising his eyebrow at the hound, Ramsay merely pressed a kiss to the back of Sansa’s hand. It seared her flesh.

“You are still filthy from before.” He tsked. “Let Myranda draw you a bath.” Closing the distance, she had put between them, he curled the ends of her hair around a finger. “I look forward to seeing your hair. I wonder if it’s the same shade as your mothers… something tells me not.”

She had no doubt Ramsay saw the true depth of her rage before she managed to swallow it down. “You’ll have to wait until tonight.”

“Until tonight,” he echoed. A promise. _A threat_.

He released her and she turned on her heel, retreating to the castle. The only thing that kept her from running was Alison’s presence by her side.

_Brave_ , Sansa reminded herself. _I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are interested, Sansa is wearing [something like this for the kitchen scene](http://centuries-sewing.com/2018/08/27/a-16th-century-kirtle-in-olive-wool-with-caramel-oversleeves/), with an apron on. Oversleeves and aprons were commonly used by maids, but also by ladies when they did activities that could dirty their dress (typically gardening). 
> 
> There are a lot of details in this chapter that I took directly from the books. Those are all actual names of Ramsay’s dogs – I chose Alison because she distinguished herself as excessively violent in the book. Also, Ben Bones is Ramsay’s kennel master in the book, and since the show has Myranda as the kennel master’s daughter, she is his daughter. Additionally, Caine Corsos are the breed of dog that Ramsay uses in the show for hunting (other than hound dogs). 
> 
> Theon’s quote is word for word from the book. I just changed who he was speaking to.
> 
> I am in the veterinary field, so I used what I've learned from basic anatomy as well as leaning heavily on youtube videos, descriptions, and Charles Dance's scene where he is gutting a deer to do my best to figure out what steps would be needed to properly skin something. I apologize for any inaccuracies and welcome any help or corrections. Thank you!


	7. Seven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bath scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue in this chapter is admittedly word for word from the bath scene from 5x6: _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_. For that, I must apologize because the chapter will be utterly predictable in that sense. Hopefully seeing it from Sansa’s perspective within the confines of this fiction will serve to entertain you.

**Seven.**

_“Whoever becomes a sheep is eaten by wolves.”_

― Henri-Frédéric Amiel

The day that she had flowered, Cersei had insisted on helping her bathe as a sort of ‘right of passage’. The threat of being stripped nude in the court was still very fresh in Sansa’s mind; and now, Cersei had asked her to disrobe as though it was something that she had done a hundred times before. Her hands had trembled so fiercely that she wasn’t able to unbutton one of her clasps. Seeing her struggle, the great lioness had simply sighed and brushed her hands away, before helping her out of her clothes.

The room was not cold, but her skin prickled. Her budding breasts ached, feeling strangely full and heavy and an embarrassing smear of red marred her thighs. There was a moment when the Queen stepped back and eyed her from head to toe, analyzing every feature of her. Sansa’s eyes had flown to the door, terrified that Joffrey or the Kingsguard would come barging in to complete her humiliation. Cersei had simply tutted, turning her this way and that, stroking her skin, curling her hair.

And then the strangest thing happened. Almost stranger than the conversation in the Queen’s solar that had come before. Cersei dismissed the other servants and helped Sansa into the bath. She remembered her hands were so gentle as she bathed her, as though she were Myrcella instead of the traitor’s daughter. Sansa had closed her eyes and for a moment, it was her own mother’s hands in her hair. Hands that knew her hair better than she did, that braided her locks into styles that matched her own, or fumbled gently with pins as she laughed while trying to recreate the looks that Sansa had so admired on other ladies.

Sansa inhaled deep, but instead of the smell of fresh snow and water lilies— a scent she associated with her mother —she smelled iron and mulled wine. She was far from home with a lion’s paws deep in her hair, throat exposed to the gapping maw of King’s Landing. At that moment she was sure that she would never see Winterfell again.

And yet here she was, bathing in the belly of her home as Myranda’s hands scrubbed the black dye from her hair. In truth, Sansa was glad to be rid of it. It was like shedding Littlefinger’s filth from her, revealing a new and truer version of herself.

Still, Sansa was now very much aware she was only exchanging one monster for another. Danger curled in her stomach even as her senses sharpened. Every breath brought her closer to the inevitable violence against her body, but the taste of her fear was met with the strengthening of the wolf inside her.

“You’re so beautiful,” Myranda sighed, breaking her from her thoughts. “But you need to keep him happy.”

.

_“But, shouldn’t I love Joffrey, your Grace?” she had asked, young and confused._

_Cersei wore many masks, and Sansa had seen her fair share of them. Her flowering seemed to have kindled something inside the Queen, something that left her vulnerable and completely honest._

_Sansa had a rare glimpse into Cersei’s heart as the Queen smiled hopelessly at her. “You can try, little dove.”_

She had struggled with keeping Joffrey happy. There were times when she was able to play to his ego, and other times when she stupidly chose to speak in anger instead of utilizing the moment to further protect herself. She had learned from Littlefinger how to turn a conversation to her advantage, but the most important thing she learned was that she should never be vulnerable. Every interaction was a chance to educate herself about her enemies.

Sansa was fairly certain that she could keep Ramsay happy, but she knew that his happiness wouldn’t always be to her benefit. Still, if Myranda wanted to give her a lesson disguised as a threat, Sansa would pick the bones clean to get to the meat of what she wanted.

“You don’t want to end up like…” and here Myranda paused, as obvious as a mummer in a play. “ _Like the others.”_

Again, Myranda took on the guise of a friend, a confidant. Sansa wanted to roll her eyes. It was a pointless effort as the two had already acknowledged the hatred between them, but she allowed the girl to continue for now. What shoddily sewn plot would the girl “surprise” her with now?

“What others?” Sansa asked, as though reading from a script.

“I shouldn’t gossip,” Myranda chided, shaking her head. “Ah, it’s good to see the red again. No point in hiding anymore.”

The wolf in her grinned, hidden deep beneath her human flesh. It cooled the heat of her anger, soothing it with a promise. They still thought she was just a scared naïve girl; they believed her fleshy prison is her true self. An echo of the mother felled before her, a copy of the many victims that came before her.

Myranda is right, in a way. There is no point in hiding anymore. No, Sansa is _waiting._

And she is tired of this game.

“What others.” No longer a question.

Myranda smiled, eager to continue. Her stitches were glaringly obvious, marring a garment where the seams were meant to be hidden. Sansa could choke on the girl’s confidence.

“Let’s see,” she began, playing coy. “There was Kira, the blacksmith’s daughter. She was tall like you, lovely figure. But she talked and talked and talked and… Ramsay grew tired of that.” _Just like he will grow tired of you._

“Then there was Violet. Oh, she had gorgeous blonde hair but- hm- she got pregnant and _well_ , that _was boring_.”

In that moment, Sansa understood what Ramsay saw in Myranda. Cruel and ruthless, she cared not that Violet was her peer and possibly even a friend. The girl easily became prey when the circumstances served Myranda. She was merciless, knowingly killing a woman and child.

_As her good sister had been murdered._

Littlefinger whispered ideally in her ear, noting that Myranda kept bringing up each girl’s beauty, their attributes. _Jealousy,_ he noted, a weapon to be utilized.

_Threat_ , Cersei hissed. If the Bolton’s had their way, Sansa would soon be pregnant with Ramsay’s child but she doubted he would find it quite so boring. Any child that Sansa would bear would uphold Ramsay’s legitimacy and ensure his claim to Winterfell.

Myranda’s hand pressed on her collarbone, close to her throat. Sansa sat up, taking advantage of the opportunity to mask her expression of disgust while her face was hidden from Myranda’s view. The idea of having Ramsay’s child inside of her made her skin crawl.

“Then, _Tamsay_ ,” the kennel master’s daughter sighed like a lovesick fool. “Such a _sweet_ girl. Of course, sweet girls get a bit dull after a while, don’t they?” _You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?_

And Cersei’s voice, _You’re perfect, aren’t you?_

“Ramsay let me come with him on that hunt,” Myranda gushed, not bothering to hide her obvious pleasure at the demise of a friend.

“Hunt?” she asked, soaking in every detail. No matter how they made her feel, every piece of information was a potential weapon she could use.

Myranda merely hummed her response. She could feel the girls’ hands running over the curve of her spine.

“Have you ever seen a body after the dogs have been at it? Not so pretty,” Myranda’s hand practically caressed her shoulder blades, running over the scarred skin of her back. The girl was no doubt fantasizing about what Sansa’s body would look like if Ramsay’s dogs had ripped her apart.

Sansa fought back a snarl. In the corner, Alison lifted her head. Up until this point, she had slept quietly by the fire, practically forgotten by the kennel master’s daughter. Sansa met the hound’s eye and subtly shook her head. The dog held her gaze for a moment longer but returned to her resting position. She smiled softly at her new friend. She was pleased the hound was quick to protect her and was already showing signs of bonding with her. For a moment, she allowed herself to fantasize about what Myranda would look like if she allowed Alison free reign.

_Not so pretty._

“Ah, but it’s your wedding day! Why am I talking about such things?”

_Why indeed._ Sansa wondered if Myranda was meant to scare her with the truth about her intended. Purposeful or accidental, it mattered not as she was already aware of her husband’s particular hobby, but Ramsay did not know that fact. To have it revealed now, mere hours away from her wedding… she could practically feel the steel trap around her ankle.

“What was your name again?” she asked, as though she didn’t remember, a subtle slight at the girl’s importance.

“Myranda,” she replied, oblivious.

Internally, she scoffed at the girl’s continued confidence in her obvious threats. After the fine detailed craftsmanship of King’s Landing, where each lie and threat were stitched with care and detail, Myranda’s ploys were sloppier than Arya’s attempts at embroidery.

“And how long have you loved him, Myranda?” she asked.

When Sansa turned to face the servant, she looked every inch a wolf. “Did you imagine that he would be with you forever, is that it? And I came along and ruined it.”

A flash of teeth, a lazy smile.

Her eyes blazed as she leaned forward, every word an open declaration of war. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home and you can’t frighten me.”

Myranda’s eyes grew wide and her breath stuck in her throat as she realized for the first time she was staring at a predator. Sansa may have been naked and vulnerable in every way, but Myranda had been dealing with dangerous dogs her whole life. The threat to her person was clear, and she responded as she would if Ramsay’s dogs had cornered her in the kennels.

The stink of her fear filled the room and Alison let out a low growl.

Quickly, Myranda broke eye contact and bowed her head, eyes to the floor. _Submission._

“Are you done with your bath, my lady?” Myranda asked, using all the curtsies she knew in hopes of placating her.

“Go. I can finish on my own,” Sansa dismissed, turning her back on the servant without fear of rebuttal.

Myranda stood, knocking over her stool. Sansa chuckled under her breath as she observed that the girl didn’t look that dissimilar to when Rickon would have a tantrum over some small inconvenience.

Myranda left the room without turning back, refusing to admit that fear chased her every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the wedding.


	8. Eight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Wedding.
> 
> The events of this chapter take place during 5x6: _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._
> 
> This is the chapter I lost that broke my heart. As you can imagine, this chapter contains the wedding and wedding night and was incredibly difficult to write. I pulled from my own life experiences and other places of strength and understanding to write the original draft of this chapter. It took time and energy to get just right and then my computer deleted it and it shattered me. Re-writing it has been a struggle. But hopefully it still honors the trauma of what is to come. 
> 
> **Trigger warning to readers** : this chapter contains sexual assault, violence, and rape. If you want to avoid the rape portion specifically, simple conclude the chapter at the line, “Surely, he wouldn’t… he couldn’t…”. _The rape is not explicit_ , but I want to protect anyone who may be vulnerable to reading about this kind of violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter take place during 5x6: _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._
> 
> This is the chapter I lost that broke my heart. As you can imagine, this chapter contains the wedding and wedding night and was incredibly difficult to write. I pulled from my own life experiences and other places of strength and understanding to write the original draft of this chapter. It took time and energy to get just right and then my computer deleted it and it shattered me. Re-writing it has been a struggle. But hopefully it still honors the trauma of what is to come. 
> 
> **Trigger warning to readers** : this chapter contains sexual assault, violence, and rape. If you want to avoid the rape portion specifically, simple conclude the chapter at the line, “Surely, he wouldn’t… he couldn’t…”. _The rape is not explicit_ , but I want to protect anyone who may be vulnerable to reading about this kind of violence.

**Eight.**

_“To run with the wolf was to run in the shadows, the dark ray of life, survival and instinct. A fierceness that was both proud and lonely, a tearing, a howling, a hunger and thirst. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst. A strength that would die fighting, kicking, screaming, that wouldn't stop until the last breath had been wrung from its body. The will to take one's place in the world. To say 'I am here.' To say 'I am.”_

― O. R. Melling

Magda was silent as she dressed her in the wedding gown Sansa had modified. The one Littlefinger had purchased for her before they left the Eyrie, before she knew exactly what was required of her to win back her home. It felt heavy and unnatural. Sansa swallowed down the instinct to claw the fabric off her skin, but her handmaid must have seen her distress because she ran a cool hand along her forehead. She could have cried from the kindness in Magda’s touch. She ached for her mother. She wanted her mother’s gentle hands in her hair, her soothing voice in her ear...

The cruel irony of the situation was not lost to her. She thought of her brother, Robb, who had followed his heart and severed the chance at a political marriage, one that could have won him the war. Sansa wanted to scream at her brother, to smack him. As a man, Robb would have been the master of that relationship. Even if his bride was not to his liking, he was not the one who needed to be penetrated, who needed to carry a stranger’s child in their womb for nine months. A political marriage is easy for a man.

But Robb had chosen to follow his heart. It pained her that such a decision was easily and hastily made by her brother, but he did not follow his heart to champion for his sister. He did not try to save her when she was only a girl in a lion’s lair.

Joffrey took great pleasure in letting her know that Robb had removed her from the line of succession. He had left her to die. Her pack had willingly and knowingly abandoned her.

But she survived.

She survived Kings Landing only to be trapped in a political marriage to the very people who had betrayed and murdered her family. There was no escape for her.

Sansa wondered what her mother had counseled Robb to do, how much of a hand she had in her daughter’s fate. As a child, she had never considered the possibility that she would be married without her parents present, without her mother to help her prepare for her union.

She had been alone in Kings Landing and she was alone now.

“Should I light a candle?” Magda asked, adjusting the fish clasps on her gown. The one’s she had lovingly removed from one of her mother’s old garments and carefully placed on her wedding dress. It was meant to give her strength and remind her of her mother’s courage.

It was also a symbol of rebellion, a quiet way to let the Bolton’s know that Catelyn Stark lived on and would be avenged.

_“Lady Sansa, before your mother's death, I was her sworn sword. I gave my word I would find you and protect you. I will shield your back and keep your council and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”_

_Sansa assessed her mother’s sworn sword, smiling to herself at how her mother had chosen to align with other strong women… with a woman that very much reminded her of Arya and of the warrior she had always wanted to become._

_She listened as Littlefinger spoke to Brienne and it became very clear that he had taken control of the conversation in order to paint the knight as a strong arm for the Lannisters, someone that was entirely untrustworthy. However, in doing so, it was also clear to Sansa that he either underestimated her or overestimated himself. It was his training that allowed her to see the web he was spinning, and all the truths he used to create a lie._

_Brienne of Tarth was a complication to Littlefinger. As someone who had seen the depths of his ambition, Sansa knew that this meant that the woman was someone he would want eradicated. And Sansa couldn’t have that._

_“You should leave,” she had said._

_Sansa couldn’t escape, but Brienne could. Luckily, the woman was able to understand her unspoken message and retreated. She knew that by saving Brienne, she could trust the woman to protect her in the future, if needed._

Her instinct had proven correct. Shortly after arriving, Magda had told her about the candle. _The North Remembers._

As much as she would have loved to light it, the truth was that Brienne was just one woman, and the Bolton forces numbered in the thousands. Not to mention that Roose Bolton was no fool. He had kept her closely guarded ever since her arrival.

She shook her head and Magda nodded in understanding. There is only so much one person could do.

Instead, she had found her old hiding spot as a child -- a loose board in the corner of her room – and placed a candle and matches amongst childhood knickknacks. Even if Ramsay were to discover it, there would be nothing suspicious about its inclusion.

This way, she sewed Brienne’s protection into the lining of her armor. It was there, tucked away, should she need it.

“There will be pain when he puts himself inside you,” Magda said quietly, her touch clinical as she smoothed out the fur at her shoulders. “I fear it will hurt until he spills himself inside you.”

Shaking, Sansa nodded, unable to speak.

“You do know what will happen tonight?” Magda asked, her face that of a concerned mother.

Again, Sansa could only nod. In this space, she was allowed to be afraid. Sansa granted herself the freedom to tremble, allowed the tears to gather in her eyes.

“Are you very much afraid?”

She looked at Magda and smiled shakily. “It wouldn’t do me much good to be afraid, would it?”

Silently, her handmaiden picked up the glass of lemon water that Sansa favored. Without a word, she removed a vial from a hidden pocket in her dress and poured its contents into the glass before handing it to Sana.

“Drink deep,” she instructed.

“What is it?” Sansa asked as she brought the glass to her nose. All she could smell was the comforting scent of citrus.

“It will take the pain away,” Magda explained. “You’ll be alert, so he won’t have reason to suspect, but it will make the pain less.”

Affectionately, the woman placed her hands on Sansa’s shoulders, her touch soothing. “I can’t save you from tonight, and for that I know your mother and father would never forgive me. But I can protect you from suffering."

Without further explanation, Sansa did as she was told and drank the glass. It burned slightly on the way down, followed by a cooling sensation that promised to numb her from the inside out.

Magda took the glass away and cupped Sansa’s face in her hands.

“Listen to me, wolf-child, and listen well. You will survive this night. He will break your body to try to make you think you aren’t strong, but you are. You aren’t strong because you’ve survived all that happened in King’s Landing. You survived King’s Landing because you were strong to begin with.”

Magda brushed away the tears that fell from her eyes. Sansa tried to hide her face, to pull on her mask, but her handmaiden didn’t let her. With the gentleness of a mother, she pulled Sansa into a hug. The embrace knocked the breath out of her, but the old woman held her tight and shushed her.

“No matter how hard he tries, he cannot take your strength from you. Not unless you let him,” she whispered into her ear.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home and you can’t frighten me._

…

It was beautiful. The godswood was softly lit in fairy lights, the snow falling gently from the sky, kissing the earth with a hint of winter. Never before had the weirwood looked so magical. She wondered if this is what the children of the forest had seen before deciding that this would be the symbol of their Gods, before carving its face into the trunk. Sansa could practically feel the presence of the Old Gods, felt connected to the North in the way her father had always promised she would be. The great heart tree stood in attendance like an ancient guardian, as it had for centuries. All of her ancestors had stood where she was as Northern families joined into the Stark line, strengthening the bond to the North and to winter. Her heart swelled with emotion before poison began to trickle into her veins.

The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above.

_A pure world_ , Sansa thought. _I do not belong here_.

Yet she stepped out all the same.

The leaves of the weirwood decorated the fresh snow, staining it like blood.

An omen.

She was thinking of the wrong story. Sansa was no Jonquil the Fair; she was not to be wooed and married to Florian the Fool. No, this was a darker tale of the North Old Nan would tell, where a young maiden would sacrifice herself at the crux of the heart tree to please the Gods, to make Summer come again.

Littlefinger had been willing to sacrifice her. She foolishly thought she could withstand marrying a Bolton if It meant that she could avenge her family in the end.

But that was before she found out what Ramsay was.

Her numb fingers briefly grasped onto the trout clasps as she willed her hands to stop shaking. In her head, she was screaming. She briefly entertained the thought of running. But even if she made it to the stables and managed to steal a horse, Ramsay was a superb hunter. He would find her before she could reach The Wall and although she knew Brienne was close, the knight would be no match for the Bolton forces. She would be dragged back here screaming and forced into the ceremony anyway.

Arya would have done it. Arya would have rather risked it than take no chance at all.

But she was not Arya. She was only a girl.

She was only Sansa Stark.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home and you can’t frighten me._

So, she walked down the aisle toward the inevitable, allowing herself the cool calmness of detachment. It was a method she had used a hundred times in Kings Landing, and it would serve her now.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Roose asked, voice low and steady. His tone was soft, but sure. A parent lulling a child to sleep with a fairy tale. Lulling her into a false state of complacency. She knew it would look better for him if she entered this willingly. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

“Sansa of the House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, true borne and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods,” Theon’s voice was stilted and hesitant, like he had to force each word out of his throat.

She wasn’t begging for the blessing of the Gods, but for their mercy. At this point, she knew only divine intervention could save her. Perhaps Stannis would interrupt the ceremony, a surprise attack, slaughtering the Boltons and their loyalists and freeing her. Perhaps Ramsay would just drop dead. Maybe she would.

Perhaps that would be better than what was to come.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home and you can’t frighten me._

“Who comes to claim her?” Theon asked.

“Ramsay of House Bolton. Lord of Hornwood and heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell,” Ramsay replied. “Who gives her?”

Sansa kept her face as serene as a porcelain doll. Inside, she was seething at his presumption to think he could lay claim to Winterfell, to lay claim to her.

“Theon of House Greyjoy, who was… who was her father’s ward,” Theon managed. _Traitor._

She hears the hesitance in his voice, the pain this ceremony is causing him. She remembered her words earlier.

_“Lord Ramsay, he said I’m to take your arm,” Theon insisted, holding his arm out. He never met her eyes._

_“I’m not touching you,” she spat. She was too raw to play games now. She was willing to pretend, willing to say the words, but this was the one thing she couldn’t do._

_“Please. He’ll punish me,” Reek whimpered._

_“And you think I care what he does to you?” she responded, letting him know that he deserved every punishment he had suffered._

_She longed for her father. But he was dead, and she was alone._

There were times when she looked at Theon now and only saw Reek, the shell of who he was. But every now and again, Theon would come through. Watching him now, forcing himself to accept the responsibility of who he was, of how the decisions he made had landed them both here, she knew that the only way Theon would ever help her is if she forced him to come to terms with it.

“Lady Sansa, do you take this man?” Roose asked. As though she could refuse.

Sansa knew there was no going back, this was a choice that would change her life. She had chosen to lie to protect Joffrey, she had decided to go to Cersei about her father, she had stayed in King’s Landing when the Hound offered to steal her away, she had married Tyrion Lannister and prepared herself to be bedded, she had worn the poison necklace, she had protected Littlefinger from people who would protect her, and she had chosen to come to Winterfell and marry Ramsay Bolton.

All those choices brought her here. Those many, many instances when she truly had control led her to this point where her free will was ceremonial.

Taking a deep breath, she again willed the Gods to have mercy on her.

“I take this man,” she whispered.

Ramsay smiled and the steel trap snapped tight around her ankle.

…

Sansa wasn’t sure what to expect. She knew that Lord and Lady Bolton slept in her parents’ chambers and Ramsay occupied the rooms that once belonged to her brother, Robb. She didn’t know what would be more painful— having to share her husband’s rooms and be raped in her brother’s bed or to be able to keep her own. Luckily, it appeared that Ramsay wanted his own space, and her wedding bed was to be her own.

The room was lit by soft candlelight, bathing the room in what she imagined was supposed to be a romantic glow. Sansa stepped inside quietly. There was no turning back. This was reality. She had heard the stories of what Ramsay was capable of, had seen some of his tendencies for herself, but now there was no barrier between her and the monster.

Tonight, he would do violence against her.

She _knew_ he was going to violate her in the most painful of ways when she uttered the words that bound them together—but she didn’t know the reality of what Ramsay was capable of.

Tonight, she would know suffering.

“Are you pleased, my lady?” her husband asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Swallowing bile, Sansa managed to nod.

Tonight, she would know pain.

Ramsay stepped toward her and cupped her cheek gently and it took everything inside of her not to flinch away from him.

“Good. I want you to be happy.” He smiled at her, rubbing his thumb along her cheekbone.

He pressed his lips against hers, his kiss reminding her of Joffrey’s so long ago, the imitation of kindness, of gentleness.

Ramsay pulled away just slightly, his lips ghosting over hers as he spoke. “I seem to remember you saying you were ‘eager to learn’. Isn’t that right?”

Sansa pressed her lips to his, mimicking his kiss before pulling away. “Yes, my lord.”

With a pleased smile, Ramsay stepped away from her. “Good. Let us begin your lessons. Take off your clothes.”

_My Lord Father has commanded me to consummate this marriage._

Sansa remembered swallowing a goblet of wine, of slowly removing her wedding gown with shaking hands, a mere girl of four and ten surrounded by the men who had her father killed and married to a Lannister. She hadn’t known she was going to escape that night with her maidenhead, and she had faced the task of being bedding without hesitation. Perhaps it was her sorrowful obedience that made Tyrion protect her, although in retrospect she was certain that he was a much better man than anyone else she had come to meet once she left Winterfell.

_I won’t share your bed… not until you want me to._

There would be no such protection tonight.

Sansa looked over at Theon who took it as his signal to leave her to her fate. But as he took a step to leave, Ramsay’s voice cut him short. “Oh _no no no.”_

Gone was the gentle loving tone Ramsay had affected, in its place was the naked malice of his true voice. “You stay here, Reek. You _watch.”_

Sansa’s breath stuttered in her chest as she watched Theon hesitate for only a moment before bowing his head, leaving no doubt that he will comply with Ramsay’s demands.

“Do I need to ask a second time?” her husband asked her, annoyance creeping into his tone. “I hate asking a second time.”

Slowly, Sansa turned away from him, feeling him watch her every move. Her fingers blindly found her sleeves, untying them with shaking hands. She was grateful to be turned away from Ramsay so that he couldn’t see her panic. Somehow, she managed to stop herself from sobbing, but tears filled her eyes and she could feel his triumph.

The sound of her slowly undressing was all the cue that Theon needed to shut the door and lock it, trapping her inside.

Her numb fingers fumbled with the fish clasps. The talismans were powerless now, just cold empty objects that could not save her from this inevitability.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home and you can’t frighten me._

She had known this was going to happen and tried to plan accordingly, but all her training failed her. How could she do as Cersei said and use the weapon between her legs when she did not know herself at all?

Margaery would advise her to fake her pleasure and let Ramsay think that she, too, was perverse in her desires. Or even better, that he was the one who made her realize the depths of her own depravity. But how could she fake finding pleasure with a man if she had never even touched herself? She never had the desire to until she was already in Kings Landing, and at that point, she couldn’t risk exploring herself when Tyrion could return to their chambers at any moment.

Why hadn’t Littlefinger prepared her for this inevitability?

“Reek, I told you to watch,” Ramsay ordered, sounding like a parent gently reprimanding a child.

Swallowing a sob, Reek brought his eyes up to look his Master in the face. He knew the consequences of disobeying.

Ramsay smiled and Theon wondered if it would be possible to gouge out his own eyes instead. It might put off Sansa’s torture as Ramsay became distracted by him, or it may only serve to excite his Master and his misery and pain would become the background to Sansa’s rape. 

Ramsay’s voice was like a silk garrote around the necks of his victims.

“You’ve known Sansa since she was a girl. Now watch her become a woman.”

_“You’re a woman now, do you have any idea what that means?” Queen Cersei asked as though Sansa did not feel the rope tight around her neck._

_“I am fit to bear children for the king,” she replied without hesitation. She knew the right words to say._

_“A prospect that once delighted you.”_

_She and Cersei regarded each other, and she realized that the Queen empathized with her position but would never save her from it._

She prayed to the Old Gods to give her the strength of her ancestors. If she could not seduce her husband, perhaps she could tantalize him another way. Sansa would be indifferent, and Magda’s potion would help, and it would madden Ramsay to no end that he was unable to get her to cry out, to scream. His inability to shake her would be the lure she needed to influence him. Every man wanted a challenge.

Impatient with her progress, Ramsay’s hands grasped her dress at the neck and tore it open, bearing her back to him.

_“Meryn, my lady is overdressed. Unburden her,” Joffrey commanded._

_Sansa watched Meryn approach her with wide eyes, barely even managing to beg for mercy as he grasped the collar of her dress and ripped it in two. She clutched at the front of her gown in an attempt to protect her own modesty and she prayed---_

She prayed to the Old Gods that she would become as cold as winter, as strong as the North itself-

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home-_

Ramsay pressed his hands against her spine, urging her to bend over her childhood bed and—

She couldn’t do it.

Spinning around, Sansa smacked Ramsay across the face as hard as she could. He flew back from her, eyes wide with surprise as he brought his hand to his bloodied face.

Her hands were shaking, but Ramsay’s blood was under her nails.

“ _There she is!”_ he crowed triumphantly. “There’s the she-wolf I married.”

Touching his bloodstained cheek again, he grinned. “For a moment there, I thought this was going to be boring.”

His smile turned sinister and every muscle in Sansa’s body went taut. “Should I fuck you like a wolf too, _Lady_ Sansa? Mount you like a bitch in heat?”

As the newly married couple eyed each other, the only sound that filled the room was Sansa’s breath as she gasped for air.

“No,” Ramsay finally whispered. “I want you to see _exactly_ who is fucking you.”

He moved so quickly that she barely had time to react. Sansa’s nails found purchase in his flesh as he forced his mouth back on hers, reaching around her to tear her gown completely in two. Before he could rip it from her body, Sansa pulled free of his mouth and sank her teeth into his shoulder.

Ramsay shouted in pain before landing a blow to her stomach that forced the breath from her. Stunned, she fell on to the bed, clutching her abdomen as she fought to catch her breath. Her wedding gown was hanging from her body, the weight of the fabric pulling it away from her and exposing her breasts to his view as it pooled around her wrists. Ramsay fisted the front of her dress and yanked it from her, flipping her onto her back and leaving her completely naked to his gaze.

Sansa’s heart was pounding in her ears and her eyes shot to the door, wondering how far she would make it if she got past Theon. The moment she took her eyes off Ramsay, he fell upon her, pinning her to the bed. She kicked and screamed, refusing to stay still. All nails and teeth and fury, fear closing her throat and narrowing her vision.

“Reek! Hold her down,” Ramsay ordered.

Surely, he wouldn’t… _he couldn’t…_

And then, Theon’s hands around her wrists, pinning them to the same bed that she once dreamed of marrying a prince, the bed Rickon would sneak into when he had a nightmare, the one Arya would sheep-shift, the one where her mother had tucked her into endless times in a life that was once hers.

Sansa knew she was still fighting, vaguely she knew her lips formed the word “no” over and over again, she knew she was screaming, that the whole castle would hear her and have no doubt what was occurring in the marital chamber. And then the inevitable happened and robbed the sound from her lungs.

She fell silent beneath her husband and she knew the gods were impervious to her prayers.

Outside, the hounds began to howl.

_The gods have no mercy. That’s why they’re gods._


	9. Nine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** Please read the chapter notes at the beginning of each chapter!**
> 
> Recovery, pain, and hope. 
> 
> This chapter contains references to abuse, violence, and rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that there will be some readers who are angry with me for the events of the last chapter. Unfortunately, Sansa Stark is very much deserted at Winterfell and, unless she somehow escapes before her wedding, her rape at the hands of Ramsay is inevitable. It is something that even Sansa Stark knows from a very early point in the show canon. As I do want to make her more active in her own fate, I did try to instill different attempts Sansa made to at least lessen what would occur to her, or at least to set up a chance for her to have power after her marriage.
> 
> Please note that one thing I knew I had to change was the idea that Sansa was “made strong” by her mistreatment. Rape should not be used as a plot device to make a woman more empowered or to create a strong character development. It is too frequently used by Hollywood and was already utilized in the show for Daenerys storyline. Sansa Stark proved herself to be a strong person by having the fortitude to survive in Kings Landing as a _child_ and her sense to protect herself (and Littlefinger) from potential threat in the Vale. It was this thought that actually inspired me to write this fiction in the first place. 
> 
> The show set Sansa up to be a politically savvy person, but, like many other storylines, this plot point was serviced rarely as they wanted to highlight Jon’s prowess instead. The main purpose of this fiction is to make Sansa active in her own fate. She did not deserve to be the damsel in distress for almost the entirety of the show, considering the many times that the dialogue in the final season insisted Sansa was “the smartest person”. 
> 
> That being said, please know that I do have Sansa’s best interest at heart, but this fiction is not a Mary Sue. She will make mistakes, she will have to endure pain and suffering, but she is a survivor. I hope you want to continue this journey with me, but if not, I completely understand.

**Nine.**

_“The wolves knew when it was time to stop looking for what they'd lost, to focus instead on what was yet to come."_

― Jodi Picoult

The sad truth was Ramsay hadn’t lied to her. It wasn’t until she had been the wife of Ramsay Bolton for a fortnight that she realized he _had_ been gentle with her the first night. On her wedding night, the only weapon he used against her was his body. He fucked her as many times as he could manage, pressed bruises into her flesh in the shape of his and Reek’s fingers and repaid her multiple times for the bite to his shoulder. Ramsay’s teeth impressions covered her, his favorite spot seemed to be the curve of her left breast. He liked to nibble at that one as though he were trying to gradually burrow into her chest.

The recovery from the first night… she barely had time to recover at all. He left her alone that day, forcing her to attend all the family meals, making sure she ate. He wanted to ”keep her strength up”. But the servants had just barely begun to clear away dinner when Ramsay decided they should retire to their chambers. Barely twelve hours had gone by, and they began again.

Each night, he introduced a new method of torture, a new weapon, a new tactic to make her suffer. He enjoyed describing his disappointment that many of his more _advanced_ methods would have to wait. He couldn’t have Ned Stark’s daughter walk around with an amputated limb or missing teeth or a bruised and scarred face. He never hit her stomach again after that first night—he couldn’t risk harming to her high-borne womb.

Still, enough damage had been done. Maester Wolkan guessed she had fractured at least two of her ribs and recommended strict bed rest. Ramsay tied her to the bed for three days straight to punish her for complaining. Magda was only allowed to come twice a day to bring her a bed pan and Sansa nearly sobbed from relief each time.

Some nights she fought him tooth and nail, which would both frustrate and excite him.

One night, Ramsay wanted to carve his name into her thigh, but he couldn’t get her to lay still. He was a perfectionist and couldn’t bear the thought of a sloppy signature on his prized possession. Sansa was a possessed harpy that night. She had strength she hadn’t even known. Reek came forward to hold her down and she hit him like she had seen her brother Robb throw a punch when he and Theon fought hand to hand in the courtyard. They goaded each other, cracking jokes, and Theon glowed from the praise Robb bestowed on him.

Reek no longer had the strength and weight of Theon, so he stumbled back from the force of her fist and cracked his head on the fireplace. Without his lackey to hold her still, it was no use. Ramsay walked away from that fight with what looked like a hundred scratches on his person.

She knew enough about her husband not to celebrate this minor triumph. The next night, he came back with Reek **and** Myranda. Together, they held her down so Ramsay could brand her with an _R_. It burned hot into her thigh and she passed out from the pain with the smell of her own flesh burning in her nostrils. She woke up to him inside her.

The only time she felt truly victorious was when he decided to beat her. He tied her to a chair, placed a pillow over her arm, and hit her with a club. The pain was incredible, but she only let out a muted scream. As he raised his arm for the next blow, Sansa did not flinch. Instead, she stared defiantly at Ramsay. She had been beaten before; she knew what was to come.

Frustrated at the lack of appropriate response, Ramsay hit her again and again, moving the pillow along her limbs before striking. She would cry out, but she wasn’t cowed by his violence. Not even when she heard her collarbone snap under the pressure of his hands.

She had endured this pain before. It wasn’t long before he figured it out.

_“Where did you get these?” Ramsay had asked on her wedding night, tracing the scars on her back. His touch was delicate, gentle._

_If she hadn’t been bleeding from his assault, she would almost say it was loving._

Sansa hadn’t answered and he didn’t press.

When he threw the club to the side in frustration, his fingers found her scars once more.

“Did the imp give you these?” Ramsay asked, fingernail tracing the raised flesh. “Maybe the reason he didn’t fuck you with his dwarf cock was because he enjoyed other ways of making you scream…”

She smiled at him, her canines prominent against her lips. Sansa had looked at Joffrey this way once and only the Hound had saved him from her dark intent.

“ _Or maybe he’ll give me yours,” she threatened, just a girl with nothing to lose._

“He may be a dwarf, but he is more of a man than you’ll _ever_ be,” she snarled.

The resulting grip of his hands on her throat made her see stars, but before unconsciousness took her from him, he sank his teeth into her broken collar bone. Sansa came back with a screech of agony.

“Don’t forget whose cock makes you scream, darling,” Ramsay purred, licking the blood from her wound.

“So not the imp,” he continued, as though he were discussing the weather. “But someone put their hands on you before I did. Can’t blame them. I wanted to mark your pretty flesh the moment I saw you. Such a lovely pale canvas.” He pressed his fingers against his marks on her collarbone, grinding the broken bone down.

Again, Sansa screamed as he smiled into her face.

Cupping her cheek, Ramsay whispered, “Speak to me that way again and I’ll flay the skin off your bottom. Then we’ll see how easy it is for you to sit down as you heal.”

Sansa bared her teeth at him but said nothing. She knew he wasn’t threatening her, he was _promising_ her. She also knew that if Ramsay truly wanted to hurt her, he would do it anyway.

But he never beat her again.

Sometimes she got lucky and Magda was able to sneak her the potion that would render her numb. The pain was still terrible, but she was able to endure it.

Some nights she lay there like a broken doll, staring at the wall or ceiling. There was some satisfaction in separating herself from her body. On those nights, she dreamed she was a wolf. Or was it a hound? She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t anywhere near as vivid as the wolf dreams she used to have when she had Lady.

Everything used to be crystal clear, even clearer than when she looked out from her own eyes. In those dreams, she hunted alongside her siblings and she woke with the taste of blood on her lips. She remembered being tempted to ask her siblings about it, to see if they dreamt as she did, but the more she thought about it, the sillier it seemed to ask. They would just think she was having another one of her stupid daydreams. She loved her siblings (even Arya), but the only one she truly felt understood her was Robb and even he thought she was quite frivolous at times.

Besides, what proof did she have? When she would wake up from her wolf dreams, Lady would be sound asleep at her side. She couldn’t be a warg from the stories that Old Nan would tell them. But the dreams continued until the day that Lady died. _When her father had murdered her._

Sometimes she had terrible nightmares where she would smell her father, the comforting scent of leather and the oil he would use on Ice every night. It was the smell of safety, of home. Then the sudden pain of having her throat cut, the feeling of betrayal as she fought to stay awake, stay alive…

But it was only a dream.

Perhaps she was simply finding a place of comfort in her mind. Staring at the wall or the ceiling, she would almost enter a trance state. Sansa could still feel her body, could feel whatever torture Ramsay was performing on her. Faintly, she could even hear herself crying out, could feel the tears on her own cheeks, taste the salt and iron on her lips, but she was somehow disconnected from it all.

The other part of her, her mind, was elsewhere. It was always dark, and she could only make out shapes. Still, her feet knew where to go. She would be running fast, the wind racing to keep up, chasing down a prey she could smell but couldn’t see. She could practically feel the leaves beneath her feet, branches snapping in the cold. It was thrilling. Sansa never felt more free.

But the best part of this fantasy was that she wasn’t alone. She could feel her pack around her, beside her, moving as one. If she pulled harder, she could feel packs in the distance, part of a greater whole, the North itself responding to her call.

And once, just once, she felt the whisper of her sister against her as though Arya too were reaching out for her from across a great divide. In that moment, she began to cry and Ramsay had delighted in seeing her break.

She would never let him know they were tears of joy.

She couldn’t explain it, but now she was sure her sister was alive somewhere.

The pack survives.


	10. Ten.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the show, there are two pivotal converstations between Sansa and Theon while they are both prisoners at Winterfell. 
> 
> I think it's time that Sansa and Reek have a conversation.
> 
> For those keeping track, this chapter includes elements from 5x7: _The Gift._ As far as the fiction goes, it’s been over a month since Ramsay and Sansa have been married and this chapter covers another two months in time.
> 
> As always, please read pre-chapter notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the tags state, "Ramsay Bolton is his own warning", so from this point forward, there is sure to be some mention of violence, abuse, and/or rape in every chapter. I will still post trigger warnings if a chapter is more explicit about any of the details, but I doing my best not to let this story get completely saturated in gore.

**Ten.**

_“The dreams of youth are the regrets of maturity.”_

― **Legend (1985)**

She woke to the sound of her door opening. Sansa opened her eyes and was disappointed to find that Reek was the one waking her and not Magda. No potion for her today.

He met her eyes once, then quickly turned away as though she had burned him. She noticed that he couldn’t help but allow his gaze to travel the length of her body. It was a clinical stare, assessing the new and healing wounds. Sansa was nude beneath the sheet, stained red with her blood. She dared him to meet her gaze again, but he simply stumbled about his tasks as quickly as possible.

Before Reek could leave, she spoke.

“I used to think you fancied me,” she whispered, voice raw. Theon paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “You were always less of an ass around me. You even tried to impress me once or twice. I could see the way you puffed your chest out.”

She chuckled, bitterness echoing in the empty chamber.

Theon met her gaze and hers lit with triumph. “Robb was my favorite sibling. I was always closest to him. I knew that he would be the Lord of Winterfell one day. It was the only thing that made me hesitate when I dreamt of going south and becoming queen. I hated the idea of being so far away from him.”

She licked her dry lips, sitting up. She held the sheet up out of habit but there was no point in modesty. He had seen everything already. He was present most nights.

“I thought, what better way to stay with Robb than to marry his best friend?” It really was Theon now, shame coloring his sallow cheeks and tears shimmering in his eyes.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, wincing as her bruised and bloodied feet touched the floor. “I mentioned it to mother once. She put that idea right out of my head.”

Sansa managed a rueful smile. “I always thought she was unfair to you and Jon; thought she was too hard on you. But I was wrong. Mother saw you for what you truly are.”

Theon was crying, shaking like a little boy.

“A _traitor_. A **coward,** ” she spat.

“I am,” Theon whimpered. “You’re right. I am a traitor and a coward. I deserve it. I deserve all the bad things that ever happened to me. I know that.”

“Do you like it?” she asked.

Theon’s brow creased in confusion. “The Master can do what he likes.”

“Do you like hurting me?” Sansa specified, letting the sheet fall away as she stood. He could see every bruise, every wound, some fresh and some rapidly scabbing. He could see how her skin had grown tight on her bones.

“Do you like holding me down? You must. You do it so readily. Don’t you, Theon?”

“Not Theon. I’m Reek,” he stuttered nervously, backing away as she strode towards him.

Sansa pulled his frantic hands from the door, grasping his face in her hands. “Your name is Theon Greyjoy, the last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy and ward of Eddard Stark of Winterfell. You grew up beside me and my brothers. You ate at our tables, you lived in our home, and you loved us.”

Theon was sobbing as she easily pinned him to the wall beside the door. Grasping his chin in her hands, she forced him to meet her eyes.

“You **loved** us and you wanted to be part of our pack so badly it burned,” she whispered, pressing each word into his heart. “And it was that need that destroyed everything.”

Theon shook his head, crying that he was _Reek, Reek, rhymes with weak_ …

Her nails pressed half-moons into his face until his eyes met hers once more.

“ **Theon Greyjoy** betrayed my brother, Robb Stark. His betrayal weakened Robb’s standing as King in the North and led to his death. **Theon Greyjoy** came to Winterfell, his _home_ , and murdered his two younger brothers, Bran and Rickon, effectively destroying the line of succession,” she hissed.

Theon frantically mumbled his contrition, “I’m Reek, Theon is gone. Reek paid for what Theon did. I deserve to be punished, I deserve-.”

“Theon is not gone,” Sansa interrupted, voice steady and sure. “You may pretend you are Reek because it is easier than acknowledging that you are still the Theon that betrayed his best friend, still the Theon that murdered his brothers, and still the Theon that pins down Sansa Stark and allows Ramsay to violate night after night.”

Sansa released him, stepping back so he could see all of her. “Theon Greyjoy did this to me as surely as Ramsay did.”

“Sansa, please…”

“I see you. I know who you are. So don’t think you can hide behind Reek, behind this falsehood that Ramsay built for you because it isn’t true.”

Reek’s tears had quieted and Theon stood trembling before her.

“You are Theon Greyjoy,” she repeated quietly. “And when you finally acknowledge that, when you accept all that you have done, and you decide you truly want to make amends, I’ll be waiting.”

Slowly she bent down, grasping the sheet and wrapping it securely around her body. When she looked up at Theon again, he saw the girl that hugged him tightly one last time and pressed a kiss to his cheek before climbing into the Queen’s wheelhouse. The girl he had thought of marrying since he was a boy, the girl he secretly thought of as his. It was one of the few secrets Ramsay hadn’t pried out of him but had still managed to punish him for all the same. The agony of delivering her into Ramsay’s hands in the very ceremony that looked like his dreams.

He had delivered Sansa into Ramsay’s waiting hands, knowing what was to come, when he could have warned her a hundred times before her retinue had left and she was trapped. Reek deserved all these punishments, but Sansa… Sansa didn’t deserve it the way he did.

“I’m assuming Ramsay is expecting me for luncheon,” Sansa said, somehow still managing to look like the Lady of Winterfell even here, even now.

He nodded.

“You may tell him that I accept his invitation,” she replied, dismissing him.

It wasn’t an invitation, and she would never be able to decline him, but curtesy was an armor she wore well.

Theon dipped his head in acknowledgement and respect, muttering a quiet, “My lady,” and then he was gone.

…

Although Ramsay was the source of her daily torture, it quickly became clear to Sansa that Roose Bolton was the true threat.

Underestimating Roose was easy because he did not showcase his violence, but the longer she was in his presence, the more she understood the danger of him. When Roose had first arrived at Winterfell, he had seen it was a ruin. Magda wasn’t the only servant that remained from her family’s rule. There were almost two dozen of them, trying their best to put back together her home. Lord Bolton had promised them mercy if they returned Winterfell to its former state.

Once Winterfell was functional again, he gave them the mercy he promised. Roose hanged them in the courtyard and left them there for those who survived to see. Magda was grateful her husband had died many moons before and that her daughter lived with her husband at the Last Hearth. Only her position as Sansa's lady's maid saved Magda from the noose.

Sansa also discovered that Roose could be a useful tool. There were many times when he reminded her of Littlefinger. Both men were ambitious, but Lord Bolton was unfeeling. She never saw an emotion from her father-in-law. He did not love, or hate, or grieve. The world was a game to him, and even then, it was only mildly diverting. Roose saw all of them-- his wife, his bastard, his men, and her (and likely her mother and brother before her)—as playthings for him to manipulate at his leisure.

He wasn’t her ally and certainly wouldn’t interfere with her marriage, not unless Ramsay did something to her that would render her useless. It didn’t escape Sansa’s notice that she was protected from the worst of Ramsay’s behaviors by the sparse rules that Roose had put in place. For whatever reason, Ramsay respected his father.

This was a vital jewel of information she stored away for future use.

More importantly, Roose outranked Ramsay every time and her husband had to obey his father’s word. So she used him to carve out little freedoms for herself, small requests that may seem stupid or inane to the Boltons, but Roose would often grant them in order to keep her quiet. And perhaps because it irritated his son to no end to watch his father play with his things.

It started small, simple. Sansa requested to be able to utilize what remained of Winterfell’s library. Ramsay had a mind to keep her contained within her rooms, but Roose quickly realized the folly of such an idea. The people of the North needed to see her to be sure she was still alive and still Ramsay’s wife. If granting Sansa the freedom to visit the library would quietly occupy her during the days, Roose saw no harm in allowing it. The library only had one exit and she could easily be barred in or guarded without fear of her escape.

Men like the Boltons didn’t see the threat that books posed. Sansa thought of Tyrion as poured over histories of the great wars, of her ancestors reign over the North, and the memoirs of successful Hands of Kings, soaking up as much information as she could. Occasionally she would return to her room with a religious text or book of sonnets and Ramsay would laugh at her naïve attempts to amuse herself and mock his “poor silly wife”. She said nothing, as was expected, but her mind continued to run over the tactics she had learned earlier that day.

Another ask was to be able to tend to the glass gardens. As winter came upon them with growing strength, Sansa had offered to put to use all she had learned from her mother when it came to gardening. Roose was skeptical at first, perhaps afraid she would grow some herb that she would use to poison them, but Sansa made herself clear. She wanted to survive the winter and having fresh produce would be key in the days to come. It was beneficial to Roose for Northerner’s to see her alive and well, but it was to her benefit as well. They would see that their Lady used some of her precious freedom to provide for them and, in the future, would hopefully give her a way to contact someone when she needed help.

Of course, her stock was regularly inspected by Maester Wolken for any harmful products. More importantly, Ramsay wanted to be sure that she wasn’t growing anything that could be brewed into Moon Tea. Sansa could have laughed. She was escorted to Winterfell by a _brothel keeper_. Littlefinger had provided her all the Moon Tea she could drink in a lifetime, although she had to chew the herbs instead of drink it. It was unpleasant, but a much better alternative to carrying Ramsay’s spawn.

Alison would stay by her side during the day, following her from task to task as a loyal guardian. But like clockwork, Ben Bones would find her just before dinner to strip her of her protection. With a pat on the head and one last treat, Sansa would bid the beast to leave her side. The hound did so reluctantly, familiar with the fact that every evening she was forced to leave her mistress, and in the morning, new wounds would appear on her. Sansa and Ben had an understanding. The man knew that Alison was the strongest hunter of the beasts he had raised. Truly no other animal was like her. He would continue her training and keep her healthy, and Sansa would allow him to take the dog from her whenever he bid.

The bond between her and Alison grew day by day. Sometimes, Sansa would sneak out of her chambers in the dead of night, long after Ramsay had left her side. Just like she had the first night she returned to Winterfell, she would slip into the kennels unnoticed and spend the night with the hounds. Theon said nothing of her visits, and of that, she was grateful. At the very least, he owed her his silence.

One night as she sang quietly to the hounds, Sansa realized she only had two choices. She could be the victim or she could be the victor.

Being the victim was easier. She had done so before in Kings Landing, in the Vale even. She allowed these terrible things to happen to her and never protested. Although it led to injury and pain, she was able to protect herself by enduring.

Being the victor meant she had to adapt. It meant she would have to do things that she had never done before, it meant she would have to give her oppressor the power to change her. But he would have no power in what she changed _into_ , not if she was careful.

Joffrey wanted her to be a toy. Something he could play with and manipulate whenever he wanted and ignored the rest of the time. Littlefinger wanted her to be a tool. Something he could mold and shape into whatever he needed to climb this bizarre hierarchy. Ramsay wanted her to be his prey. He wanted her fear and her pain, wanted her to see him as the master of her torment.

All these men, these _boys_ just wanted to take and take from her until there was nothing left. That blank canvas would be theirs to fill with whatever fit their fancy. They wanted to unmake her. But she only transformed into something greater.

Once she was porcelain and Kings Landing had celebrated in every crack in her delicate psyche. Littlefinger had taught her how to appear fragile, but to turn her insides into ivory. It made her impossible to break but offered her no offense. Despite all their careful planning and the sharpness of her mind, she could only protect herself from the damage that was already done. Her time with the Boltons made her realize that she couldn’t just be content to be a shield, she needed to be able to harm those who would harm her.

She had to become steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used some **ASoIaF** dialogue in this chapter to enrich the show’s characterization of Roose Bolton. While I liked his portrayal on the show (Michael McElhatton is phenomenal), his character suffered from a lot from the writing and choices made later in the series (without the books as source material). I am hoping to tie the two together as best I can, but he is admittedly a difficult character to get a feel of. Hopefully I do him some justice whenever he is highlighted in this story.
> 
> Additionally, I am back in school and I have a heavy course load but I will do my best to keep updates regular. I do have a good portion of this story written, but the ending is still being shaped. I love all your comments and appreciate all your love and suggestions. They feed me, and they serve the story.
> 
> I hope everyone stays safe.


	11. Eleven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You have made me very happy,” Ramsay said before offering her his arm. “And so, I have a gift for you.”_
> 
> Please read pre-chapter notes for content warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pre-note:** This chapter includes elements from 5x7: _The Gift_. In terms of this fiction, it covers another month or two of marriage.
> 
>  **Trigger warning** : There is a more detailed torture scene in this chapter. The unfortunate consequence of giving Sansa a stronger foothold is that Ramsay would naturally rise to the challenge of her fortitude. **There is a brief mention of rape.**

**Eleven.**

_“There are no heroes… In life, the monsters win.”_

― **Sansa Stark, _A Song of Ice and Fire_ **

Ramsay wanted two things from her: pain and fear. Everything else would follow.

Both of these things felt outside of her control. Sansa had experience with both, but never to this extent.

It was easier to conceal her fear. She had become a much more adept liar than she was in Kings Landing. There were times when she truly didn’t fear Ramsay, small lapses of blissful insanity where she merely accepted the reality that he was going to do harm to her and there was nothing she could do about it. The lack of fear was strangely giddy, gifting her with clarity of thought and a brief moment of peace before she came back to reality.

The logical part of her mind reminded her that she had an advantage, some privilege that protected her against a certain degree of maiming—Littlefinger whispered in her ear to use this knowledge to find a stronger position. Ramsay was as unpredictable as a quagmire. Sometimes her courage amused him and sometimes it inspired him to intensify his method of cruelty until she screamed her throat raw. Too much fear would sometimes appeal to his ego or sometimes it simply bored him. And she didn’t want to bore him.

Pain, too, was difficult for her to control. Magda was still able to slip her the numbing serum whenever she could, but she started to find herself turning it away. As much as she wanted to be free from pain, Sansa knew that the only way to conquer it was to push through it. One of the greatest lies that men tell women is that they are delicate and fragile. It is why men were the soldiers and women the wives. Sansa had heard the pain of childbirth from outside her mother’s chambers for all three of her younger siblings. Magda told her of her own experiences in the birthing chamber. Women must be used to the sight of blood, they must care for themselves once a month and their bodies were built for pain, to stretch and change—

To endure. Sansa would endure. She wished she had the bravery of her sister, that she had thought to learn how to fight and hadn’t relied on others to protect her from the evils of the world. Sansa was no warrior. Her only weapon was her mind and she fought to keep it sharp, to collect every single experience, every word, every tear. She filed it away and slowly used it to form a pattern for her to sew her discord.

Sansa would endure and she would prevail, or she would die. There were no other options. And she was not ready to die yet.

…

Sansa breathed in deep, pulling the fragrant air of the glass gardens into her lungs. Construction was completed the week prior, and she had already begun placing seeds into the earth. Although there were gardeners to tend to the grounds, Sansa enjoyed the little moments she was able to steal away here. It was a safe space, but she knew it was a privilege that could be revoked if she displeased her husband.

Still, she smiled down at the earth where the beginning of green was starting to press its way to the surface. No matter what damage Ramsay did to her, no matter how he broke or defiled her, she was still able to help her people. She was able to do good, to create life. Some small part of her that used to be Catelyn’s daughter was able to thrive.

Her smile deepened when Alison nudged her hand, jealous of the attention she was showering on the earth. Laughing, she pressed a kiss to the hound’s head, scratching her behind her ears. Alison pressed a sloppy kiss to her palm before curling into her side as she continued to work.

As if sensing her happiness, Ramsay entered the garden. Alison stiffened by her side, lifting her lip slightly to show just the barest hint of teeth. Sansa had taught Alison never to growl. A growl would warn her prey that she was coming.

“My beautiful wife, it is good to see you enjoying the day,” her husband greeted her. “You are a vision.”

She turned her head slightly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank you, husband.”

Ramsay offered his hand and she took it without hesitation, but her eyes tracked his every movement. It was a delicate balance of moving without fear but watching with caution. When she went to pull her hand away, he tightened his grip on her. Sansa cocked her eyebrow, but her husband merely smiled at her and went to work slowly peeling the glove off of her right hand.

“When my father told me we were marrying, I half expected a fat bearded beast. Do you know how pleased I was when I saw you?”

The glove slipped free of her fingers and he released her hand to pull her into him. His touch was possessive, hungry, and for moment, Sansa worried that he would rape her here and now in a space she held sacred. But he only pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before releasing her.

“You have made me very happy,” Ramsay said before offering her his arm. “And so, I have a gift for you.”

Sansa removed her remaining glove, oversleeves, and apron before gently tucking her hand into his elbow. Ben came out of the kennels as they exited the gardens, and Sansa nodded to Alison, indicating that the hound could leave her side.

Ramsay smiled at her as they approached Winterfell, “I think you’ll be quite pleased.”

But instead of walking in, he turned toward the staircase that lead down into the tunnels beneath the castle.

Sansa fought the instinct to look back at the sky, unsure of when she would see it again. As if sensing her thoughts, Ramsay chuckled. “Have no fear, wife. You aren’t in any danger.”

A rueful smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Of course not.”

He was quiet as they descended, leading her deeper into the labyrinth beneath the castle. This passageway connected to the vaults that held the dead and the hot springs that heated the walls. Sansa called for Lady in her mind and tried to avail herself of the strength of her ancestors. They hadn’t been able to spare her from the pain she had gone through, but it was her Stark core that gave her the power to survive it.

“I have to apologize,” Ramsay began, his voice contrite as he came to a stop outside a closed chamber door. “I have been remiss. I promised to teach you, and then neglected that promise.”

Cold crept up the back of Sansa’s spine as she remembered a conversation she had overheard at her wedding.

_Wyman Manderly was deep in his cups and hadn’t noticed Ramsay’s quiet bride standing so close to him. Several other lordlings leaned in close, as though Wyman were drawing them around a fire to tell stories about grumkins and snarks. Bran had always loved those the best._

_“This isn’t his first wedding. Ramsay took Lord Hornwood's lands by forcibly wedding his widow, then locked her in a tower and forgot her. It is said she ate her own fingers.”_

_The other men cringed back in shock and disgust. But Manderly just leaned in, yellow teeth bright as he leered at them. “It’s true! Ask him if you don’t believe me. And how do the Lannister’s reward their faithful dog? By giving him the key to the North.”_

_Sansa didn’t have the luxury of showing her emotions. All she could do was pray for Lady Hornwood and hope that her fate wouldn’t be the same._

Opening the door, Ramsay gestured inside. It was pitch black. Sansa swallowed thickly, her eyes meeting her husband’s. He smiled gently at her. “No harm will come to you, I promise.”

Sansa didn’t dare bring up that his promises meant nothing. Steeling herself, she took a step into the darkness, waiting for the door to slam shut behind her. Instead, she was surprised when Ramsay grabbed hold of a torch from the hall and brought it inside. As he lit the torches around the room, Sansa’s chest constricted.

Magda was tied to a wooden X in the middle of the room. She was gagged and snarling, her right hand skinned to the wrist.

Sansa forced herself to approach the table slowly, managing to press her hand into her maid’s side, offering whatever comfort she could. They both knew Sansa was completely powerless to whatever Ramsay had planned for them.

Quietly, Ramsay handed Sansa a vial. “Reek told me that he saw your maid handing you this vial before I visited your chambers last night. I cannot help but think this has something to do with you not being with child.”

Sansa looked down at the numbing solution in her hand.

“I want you to think very carefully before lying to me,” Ramsay said, slowly pulling the knife from his side scabbard.

“It… it calms me, nothing more,” she answered. Her eyes were steel, a sharp edge in her voice as she said, “You promised no harm would come to me.”

“You promised not to lie,” he replied.

“I am not lying,” Sansa insisted. “If anything, it would help conception! It eases the way. Many wives have used it to be more receptive to their husbands… _attentions_.”

“Are you saying you don’t find my attentions pleasurable, Sansa?” Ramsay tsked, smiling in a bemused way.

“I think we both know the answer to that, husband,” Sansa snapped.

Grabbing onto Sansa’s right hand, Ramsay began tracing her fingers with his knife. He placed just enough pressure to slice through the delicate top layers of her skin. No deeper than a papercut, but just as painful.

“And why should I believe you?” he asked. “How do I know that you’re not lying to me?”

“I suppose you would just have to trust me, my lord,” she mocked.

“Trust.” Ramsay grinned like she had just given him the greatest gift. “Of course I trust my wife.”

“Then let her go.” Sansa bargained. She spoke firmly, not betraying the fear in her heart. “You’ve punished her and she has learned her lesson. All in Winterfell will see her wound and know it was given because she disobeyed you.”

Ramsay cocked his head as though he were actually considering her offer before he pursed his lips. “No, I don’t think so.”

Then he turned the knife in her hand so that the handle was pressed to her palm. “I think they will see how _you_ have punished her.”

She pulled air in through her teeth, glancing down at the knife in her hand.

“No,” Sansa whispered, shaking her head once in denial. “I refuse.”

“But she is my gift to you! I promised to teach you how to properly skin a hide, and yet, I have failed to give you those lessons. Please forgive me.” Everything from his tone to his facial expression mocked her despair.

The urge to use the knife in her hand on him was so strong, she could practically see the wound she would open if she slashed at his face.

“I will forgive you, gladly, if you let her go,” Sansa forced herself to smile at him, cupping his cheek in her free hand. “We can go on a hunt together and skin the animal for a feast tonight. Forget her and come hunting with me.”

“Are you refusing my gift, my lady? Because if you do, I’m afraid that I will simply be forced to continue where I have left off,” Ramsay threatened, completing his entrapment. “It’s up to you, dear wife.”

Sansa looked down at Magda, completely at a loss. She knew that if she refused, Ramsay would find a way to make whatever he did to her handmaiden a hundred times worse than whatever Sansa’s inexperienced hand could do.

_What do I do?_ She wanted to ask, pleading with the woman beneath her.

Magda met her gaze with a steel that she had seen in her own eyes: the ice of winter that belonged to all Northern woman that saw them through the difficult snows that buried their brethren. Magda looked at the knife in Sansa’s hand and then at her. She gave the most imperceivable of nods, choosing her fate.

If Magda was going to die, let it be by her own choice. Steeling her spine, Sansa adjusted her grip on the knife.

“What do I do?” she asked, her voice clipped and cold.

Ramsay slid behind her, his hand guiding her as it had on the buck all those months ago. She could feel his arousal pressing into her and knew he took pleasure in her disgust. She wanted to pull away, but instead she leaned back into him, affecting weak consent. His nose dragged along her throat, tongue tracing a line of fire on her flesh. Her nails bit into her palm on her left hand, sliding easily into the half-moon impressions that were now a permanent fixture.

“Hands and feet are the most difficult. A bit too advanced for you, but I have no doubt that in time, you will be able to filet her just as easily as I have,” he crooned in her ear. “You like to sew. You simply have to utilize the same knowledge to cut the skin off as though it were a pattern for one of your dresses.”

His hand used hers to trace the skin of Magda’s right arm. “How would you cut a sleeve?”

Magda swore at him from beneath the gag and Ramsay chucked. “Tough old bird.”

“I would cut along here,” she replied, tracing along her maid’s arm, wanting to distract him from any further punishment. Her touch on Magda’s arm was gentle, an apology for what was to come.

“Exactly,” Ramsay praised, delighted. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Ramsay let go of her hands, wrapping his around her waist. In doing so, it forced her to accept that the violence that she was doing unto Magda was of her own volition. He would not be pressing her hand down, wouldn’t be guiding her cuts, wouldn’t be physically forcing her to harm the woman who had protected her.

She would have to do it on her own.

Sansa had never been a violent person. With the exception of the usual fisticuffs that she would get into with her siblings, she had never harmed another living being in her entire life before going to Kings Landing. Even then, the violence she had done was in self-defense. This, though... she would never be the same after this. Another piece of who she was needed to be sacrificed for her survival.

Gritting her teeth, Sansa made the first incision. Magda was silent, trying not to move beneath her blade as Sansa did her best to move as quickly as possible without making a mistake. The blood stained her hands and made her grip slippery, but she refused to loosen her grip on the knife.

“Very good,” Ramsay complimented after she had finished. He traded the knife in her hand with a blunt probing tool. “Now, as you know, this is the messy part. It is a little more difficult to separate the flesh from the muscles below when your prey is still alive. Lots of bleeding and squirming, but I think you’ll manage.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she took the tool from his hand and her husband pressed a kiss beneath her ear. “Don’t worry, you’re doing fine,” he soothed, his affection entirely genuine.

Sansa wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. Her vision was blurred as she met Magda’s gaze once more, but the woman somehow managed to nod at her. Swallowing her tears, she slid the edge of the tool beneath the skin at her maid’s wrist.

In moments, Magda could no longer stay silent. The pain far too excruciating to bear. She began to scream as Sansa slowly used the tool to separate the skin from the muscles, breaking the connective tissue before peeling the skin back. Sansa did her best to hold back tears, but only managed to cry silently. She knew that Magda’s screams would haunt her for the rest of her life. The screaming only got louder the farther up her arm she got, a slow agonizing process that seemed to last a lifetime. By the time she reached Magda’s shoulder, the woman had thankfully passed out from the pain.

“I have to say, I am very impressed, Sansa,” Ramsay whispered, turning her in his arms. “Myranda could never master skinning, she’s far too impatient. But you… _you_ are quite the natural. We’ll make a Bolton of you yet.”

Sansa said nothing, but she imagined he enjoyed the hate in her eyes. Ramsay knew that she was imagining using these newfound skills on him, but the threat of violence only served to excited him further. Leaning in, he kissed her deeply, pressing her into the prone form of her maid behind her. She couldn’t bear it.

Sansa bit down on Ramsay’s lip hard, drawing blood. He shouted in surprise, wrapping his hand tightly around her throat in response.

She laughed at him as he choked her, “Just honoring my Bolton instincts, my lord.”

He released her, an unreadable expression on his face. Taking her hand, he replaced the blunt tool with the knife. “Our blades are sharp.”

The laughter died in her throat as she gripped the knife again. The two squared off for a moment before Sansa slowly turned back to the task at hand, grateful that her maid was still unconscious. Her husband gestured that the left arm would be next.

“Wait just a moment,” Ramsay instructed, turning to the corner where water buckets lined the wall. “It’s no fun if she’s not awake to enjoy it.”

His back was to her for only a few seconds. In that moment, Sansa made a choice.

She chose to be merciful.

In one fluid motion, Sansa sliced open Magda’s throat from ear to ear, pressing as deep as she could. The woman’s eyes opened wide in shock as blood splashed Sansa’s face in a spray that continued in spurts. Distantly, she could hear Ramsay shouting at her for spoiling everything, but the room was awash in a sea of red as Sansa held Magda’s gaze. The panic faded quickly to resolution and possibly even to understanding before the life bled out of her.

Her heart felt as though it had frozen solid.

Now, she truly was made of ice.

She said nothing as Ramsay ripped the knife from her hand, nothing as he pressed violent kisses to her mouth, nothing as he turned her and bent her over the corpse of her friend, still warm. She was silent as he raped her, silent as he spent himself inside her, and silent as he shut the door behind him, trapping her in darkness.

Quietly, she slid to the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” Sansa whispered.

Finally, she allowed herself to cry.

_From porcelain to ivory to steel._

Her transformation was complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write, especially since I filled out Magda's character and her relationship with Sansa. I promise that she is going on the offensive very soon.
> 
> There are some obvious ASoIaF references in this chapter. Besides Sansa’s “porcelain/ivory/steel” quote, I also utilized some book elements of Ramsay’s characterization.


	12. Twelve.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Trapped in the darkness with only her mind and her first kill, the wolf within Sansa came to the forefront._
> 
> _The time to be a woman was gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s talk timelines for a minute. In the show, Walda announces her pregnancy at Sansa’s first dinner at Winterfell and gives birth days after Sansa’s escape. This means that in show canon, Sansa was married to Ramsay for _at least_ 6 months considering that pregnancy would frequently be “diagnosed” by the end of the first trimester—even in medieval science. It is possible that the marriage was even longer, considering the Roose was actively trying to get Walda pregnant and would probably have a Maester regularly checking for symptoms (and doesn't that make it so much more horrifying that the show never strictly emphasized how long Sansa had been Ramsay's wife?).
> 
> I have done my best to stick to the six months of marriage as dictated by the show prior to her escape in the last episode of season 5. I am trying to fill them out so a more complete picture of what Sansa has gone through is shown and how she is using it to “sharpen her teeth.”
> 
> This chapter contains elements of 5x9: _The Dance of Dragons._

**Twelve.**

_“You have to be as bad as them above in order to survive.”_

― **Peaky Blinders**

Sansa didn’t know how long she had been in the room; she only knew that it was long enough that she had ceased to be hungry. She was grateful for the buckets of water which kept her from dehydrating, it helped her keep her senses about her. The room had slowly begun to fill with the syrupy sweet scent that always seemed to cling to Ramsay. Now she understood that the smell was decomposition.

She would wait until she was so thirsty, she couldn’t stand it. Then she allowed herself to drink a few handfuls of water. Each mouthful tasted like blood. Sansa couldn’t afford to waste water to wash her hands off, so each time she drank, she was reminded of what she had done to Magda. She drank her down and hoped that she could somehow take the woman’s strength into herself.

Trapped in the darkness with only her mind and her first kill, the wolf within Sansa came to the forefront.

The time to be a woman was gone.

…

It was his fault really. Ramsay had been spoiling his little wife.

At first, he allowed himself to believe that he restrained himself around Sansa because he needed to protect certain aspects of her. His father was clear: her womb and her face needed to be untouched. All the other parts, however… Myranda had whispered various ideas of how she wanted to play with the other parts of his wife, but Ramsay had only agreed to some of the games.

In truth, he enjoyed his wife more than he had anticipated. The other girls over the years hadn’t had her fortitude. He always thought Theon’s transformation into Reek was his masterpiece. It was incredibly fulfilling being able to tear down the heir to the Island Isles and change him into something so broken, he was considered to be of less value than a bastard.

Myranda was truly his equal when it came to cruelty and ruthlessness, but he had never needed to corrupt her. The instinct had always been there, he needed only give her permission to express herself.

Sansa was different.

From the start, she appeared as though she modelled herself out of the Maiden, a paragon of goodness and generosity of spirit. She had a kind and vulnerable heart that made her want to help those less fortunate. And although she had never been raised to be a Wardeness, she had all the qualities to rule competently at his side.

Still, Sansa managed to surprise him. Her softness made him expect complacency when it came to his perversions. True, sometimes she simply lay there and let him do what he wanted, but even then, she found a way to escape him. Her mind wasn’t present. And when it was… she fought him tooth and nail like a wolf.

The hate in her eyes, the flash of her teeth… it excited him. There was no doubt in his mind that she thought herself above him. Not because of the baseness of his birth, but because of the cruelty in his bones. But he knew better. Underneath the skin, she was just like him. He could see it in her, the animal beneath it all. He wanted to rip it out of her.

Ramsay finally admitted to himself that he wanted his wolf-bitch at his side as Wardeness. He always wanted to tame a wolf, and Sansa would be the jewel of his pack of bitches.

And if he broke her in the process? Well, it would be a shame, but he wouldn’t object to having another form of Reek. One can never have too many broken things.

…

In the end, Ramsay waited a week. He hadn’t intended on locking Sansa away, but in his fury, it seemed like the perfect way to punish her for spoiling his fun. Still, the sight of her, cold and unfeeling when the maid’s hot blood sprayed onto her face…

_That_ was something to treasure.

He toyed with time as he calculated the extent of his punishment. There had been three buckets of water in the cell, minus one that he dropped in his anger. Having experimented with deprivation as a form of torture, Ramsay knew that dehydration was the true danger. Two buckets of water were more than enough for her to survive on, but his father had started to harp on about locking his wife away.

A week was the perfect compromise.

Ramsay didn’t have any expectations when he opened the door to the cell. Often, he found that the best results came from allowing his subjects the freedom to destroy themselves. He didn’t know exactly how Theon would become Reek, but by giving the lord the rope to hang himself with, Ramsay was able to divine which form of torture would be the most terrifying.

So, Ramsay had no idea what would emerge from the darkness.

“Sansa,” he called as if for one of his hounds. “You can come out now.”

The darkness breathed.

“We are both expected for dinner. I am sure you are hungry. Myranda has a hot bath waiting for you,” he enticed, voice soft and soothing.

He saw her eyes first, the only point of light in the darkness. Ramsay knew the gaze well; he had seen it on the wolves he had hunted. It was the stare of two predators eyeing each other up, the knowledge that one would be made prey when the interaction was through.

As she emerged from the darkness, he wasn’t sure if he was in control or not.

Sansa said nothing, just eyed him from top to bottom before sliding her arm through his. Her touch was ice, burning pleasantly against his skin. Danger simmered from every move, and Ramsay seesawed between desire and aggression. He went to guide her deeper into the tunnels where another service stairwell would bring them up into the castle, but Sansa dug in her heels.

“No.”

Ramsay cocked an eyebrow, “No?”

“Let them see.” Her eyes burning into his. “I want them to see.”

A pleased smile split Ramsay’s face. This was going to be fun.

All of Winterfell was soon aware that its Mistress had emerged from the bowels of the castle. Like the skinwalkers of myth, Sansa walked barefoot through the snow across the courtyard. Blood spray marred her from the waist up and completely saturated the hem of her gown. She walked with her head high, looking every inch a wolf.

The northerners couldn’t decide if she had never looked more like a Stark or a Bolton.

When Ramsay delivered Sansa to her rooms, she didn’t wait for him to close the door. She stripped out of her soiled gown like she was shedding her skin. He watched as a woman transformed emerged. Her eyes stayed locked on his as she swallowed a full glass of mulled wine, red dripping down her chin and mixing with the blood dried on her breasts.

The water bled as she slid into the steaming bath and a lazy smile crossed her face.

“If you want me to be clean in time for dinner, you best leave. Otherwise, we will be late _and_ filthy.”

His mouth parted and he licked his lips, contemplating what she would taste like covered in blood and grime. Myranda’s jealousy burned bright in the corner and he couldn’t help but smile at her disdain.

If this was a show, she was giving quite the performance. But time, unfortunately, was a factor.

“Later,” Ramsay purred, bowing slightly.

Sansa’s responding smile was a dark promise.

…

His wife was a paragon of self-control. He had no doubt that she was starving, but she certainly didn’t show it. Sansa ate each course in small, even bites, never betraying her hunger.

Still, Ramsay made sure to watch as she took her first bite of venison. Her eyes had rolled up into her head and closed as she savored the flavor of the meat. She moaned so quietly that had he not been sitting beside her, he wouldn’t have heard it.

Ramsay licked his lips. He wanted to make her do it again.

As Ramsay went over his plans for Stannis with his father, Lady Walda leaned forward.

“I am glad to see you well,” she said quietly, hoping to escape notice. Everything Walda did was tentative but whole-hearted.

Sansa smiled at her. “And I, you. You are almost due now, aren’t you?”

Walda smiled down at her bump, running her hand over it. “Any day now.”

Sansa put down her silverware, eyeing her good mother. “Does he move inside you?” she asked curiously. “I remember my mother let me feel my little brothers when she was pregnant with them.”

“My mother did the same thing!” she answered, delighted to have made this connection. “He’s moving now, a little. Would you like to feel it?”

Sansa managed a soft, shy smile. “May I?”

Walda nodded at the girl. For the first time, she could see Sansa’s youth. She was what— 16? Still just a girl, younger than her. Walda’s husband had never been kind to her, but he had never been cruel. She couldn’t imagine what Sansa was going through as Ramsay’s wife. But seeing the happiness on her face at the idea of a baby, Walda couldn’t imagine denying her this opportunity.

As Sansa stood and came around the table, conversation came to a halt. At first, Roose eyed her as a threat, but he quickly assessed that all of the utensils were neatly in clear view on his son’s side of the table. Still, he kept his own knife in hand as Sansa gracefully knelt before his wife and placed both hands on her abdomen. Walda shifted Sansa’s hands until a gasp of wonder left the Stark girl.

“I feel him!” The smile on Sansa’s face made Walda blush. “He’s **strong**.”

Suddenly aware of the gaze of the men in the room, Walda shifted a little uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Yes. He’ll be his father’s son,” she stated proudly, smiling unsurely at her husband. His mouth stretched into what might be a smile, just to humor her.

Walda returned her gaze to her daughter-in-law, but was surprised to see her staring intensely at her abdomen. Her smile was frozen on her face, like a puppet with its strings pulled, but the moment that Sansa sensed her gaze, a warmth bloomed in her eyes.

“Hopefully he’ll have a nephew soon,” Roose Bolton stated, staring at his son. “They can grow up together.”

Everyone in the room heard the order in his voice.

Sansa pulled away from Walda, returning to her seat beside her husband. With the Stark girl opposite her, Walda suddenly realized how cold the girl’s hands had been on her. Like the touch of winter itself. Nervously, she met her gaze and Sansa smiled at her once more.

Walda could see the wolf in her grin.

…

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to visit your chambers tonight,” Ramsay said as he escorted his wife back to her room.

“Oh?” Sansa replied, cocking her eyebrow. “And here I thought your father made himself perfectly clear.”

“Tonight, I have different orders,” he said with pride. “Our scouts report that Stannis Baratheon rides for Winterfell. He’s a respected commander, his troops are loyal and battle tested, and five thousand foreign sell swords have bolstered his army but this storm was a stroke of luck for us Northerners. Our people are used to fighting in the frost. His army is out there now, suffering in the snow.”

“Do you intend to bring home a stag for me to skin?” she asked, amusement in her voice.

Ramsay came to a stop, turning to face Sansa. Her gaze was open and amused, but he couldn’t trust the honesty in her face. His wife was too cunning for the truth.

“Would you like that?” he asked.

“I think you saw how much I enjoyed the venison tonight,” Sansa replied, challenging him. “I would enjoy another.”

Ramsay couldn’t make heads or tails of his wife. She seemed to shift just slightly every time he thought he had her pinned. Her stay in the hole had changed her, as he was sure it would. But he wasn’t sure what she had transformed into.

It didn’t bother him in the slightest. He would enjoy putting pressure on her, pushing her until he found her breaking point. And then, she would shatter in his arms.

“Stannis will not die tonight, but come sunup, he will wish he had. When my men and I rob him of all their supplies, his men will desert him. A starving sell-sword is never a loyal one. Then, when he is weak and alone, I will cut out his heart and see if it burns.”

As they turned into the hall where his wife’s bedchambers were, he nearly startled at the sight of Alison patiently sitting at Sansa’s door.

“I asked Ben to bring her up. I hope you don’t mind,” Sansa murmured.

He watched as Alison approached her mistress. The dog came to a stop by Sansa’s side, sliding her head beneath her hand and pressing her weight into it. His wife obliged the request, scratching behind the dog’s ear.

His hounds were loyal, but he had never seen them _affectionate_. Probably because he beat that habit out of them as a puppy, but still…

“You spend a lot of time with her,” Ramsay commented.

A secret curved Sansa’s lips into a smile. “There is much to be learned from beasts.”

“And what have you learned from her, I wonder? How to chase down your prey? How to rip them apart with fang and claw? You should have seen her in action. It’s quite something to watch her tear into a screaming woman.”

It was clear he was trying to turn her stomach, to test her, but his wife only hummed in response. Instead, a thoughtful expression crossed her face.

“You are right, of course. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her in action. And she is getting restless… bored. She longs for a hunt.” This time when his wife smiled at him, he saw the hint of her canines. “As do I.”

“Do you?” he asked, allowing her to entrap herself.

“Oh yes,” Sansa replied, turning her body into his. Her hands came up to his collar, whispering gently across his neck. “In fact, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen _you_ in action. Perhaps one day you’ll indulge me.”

Ramsay’s wrapped his hand around her throat and pulled his wife to him. A gasp parted her lips and her pupils dilated. As his hand slid up to cup her jaw, he watched as she glanced at his lips before returning his gaze.

“Very well. In the days to come, we shall have a hunt, you and I. I’m sure you have another servant who you are fond of. And since you are so eager, I will make you deliver the killing blow. Will you be so tempted then, I wonder?”

As steady as ever, Sansa leaned into his hold. “I think I will surprise you, husband.”

“Will you?” His other hand on her breast, teasing the nipple through the fabric.

“Oh yes. I think so,” she replied, slightly breathless. From his touch or from his firm grip around her throat, he wasn’t sure but his wife’s eyes glowed into his.

He released his hold around her throat, moving to step away, but she caught his left hand in both of hers. 

“Wait!” she instructed. Her lips ran along his fingers, whispering kisses into them as she spoke. “A lady always gives her husband her favor before he goes into battle. For luck.”

Ramsay’s retort was robbed from him as she took his ring finger into her mouth. Her tongue caressed the bottom as she pulled his hand closer, sucking his finger deeper inside. His lips parted with desire and his eyes lit up with mischief and interest.

Then her teeth clamped down.

Ramsay hissed in shock, trying to pull his hand away, but Sansa just tightened her hold. He backhanded her hard with his free hand and she fell back laughing against the opposite wall. Alison’s jaws snapped at him, nearly grabbing hold of his arm. He had forgotten about her hound.

“Alison, come!” Sansa ordered, mirth in her voice as her fingers traced her cheekbone. The hound obediently stepped away from him, moving to her mistress’s side.

He had cut her cheek with his rings, but it was his blood on her lips. Sansa licked them and smiled.

“Now you carry my favor wherever you go,” she whispered. “Good night, Ramsay.”

He watched as his wife retreated to her room, shutting the door between them. Distantly, he heard one of his men calling for him. He knew he needed to meet with them, to go over their plans, but all he could do is stare at the even deep teeth marks his wife had left on his hand. It was a bastardization of the ring around her finger, a distortion of her vows.

What a fitting gift for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long delay between chapters. My vet tech program has consumed most of my free time. However, the ending has come into focus for me and I am slowly moving towards it. It's a bit of a glacier movement, unfortunately. I miss livejournal where I would have a community to talk through my ideas with. Working with my brain alone takes time and I frequently re-edit and change things as I go along. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I promise from this point on, Sansa will cease to be a victim.


	13. Thirteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa ignored the fissures of pain as they worked through her, memories of the violence done to her very real in her body. It made the wolf in her snarl, desperate for retribution._
> 
> _All in good time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for the long gaps between chapters. I am currently in the last half of my veterinary technology program, so it's been difficult to focus on anything outside of school. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This chapter contains elements from 5x8: _Hardhome_ and 5x9: _The Dance of Dragons._ In show terms, it is occurring the night that Ramsay attacks Stannis’ camps and sets fire to his supplies.

**Thirteen.**

_“The hardest battles are fought in the mind.”_

― **Hellblade**

The fire in her room blazed bright, but the warmth barely penetrated the layer of ice around her heart. Sansa chewed on the moon tea leaves as she glanced down at the handkerchief that Magda had left for her. Sewn into it was a symbol in loose stitches, making it easy to remove. Sitting at her vanity, she went about the process of carefully removing the symbol from the fabric as she contemplated its meaning. The repetition of the motion soothed her. Now that her hunger was finally sated, she could think clearly of what was to come.

Some part of her, the part of her that was still a woman, fiddled with pieces of cloth in her mind as she weighed each option. The wolf circled, impatiently snapping its jaws. The woman paid no mind, moving things this way and that. The pattern was stubborn, and it was always dangerous to reshape a piece of cloth. It wasn’t so simple to correct if you made a mistake. Sansa ignored the fissures of pain as they worked through her, memories of the violence done to her very real in her body. It made the wolf in her snarl, desperate for retribution.

All in good time.

Sansa came to a realization quickly. The only way she would be safe, the only way that she could win this game is if all of the Boltons were dead. She didn’t bat an eye at the deaths of Roose and Ramsay, even at the careful strands threaded this way and that. One misstep and her carefully woven lies would tie her down.

The wolf in her hungered for their deaths. She wanted their blood in her teeth, under her nails…

But Walda was a Bolton too. And her son, not yet born, was the heir.

The part of her that was Margaery or perhaps the part of her that had died in Kings Landing called for mercy.

Walda had nothing to do with her father’s actions. She had nothing to do with her husband’s crimes. The woman hadn’t a cruel bone in her body, and wasn’t that the picture of irony? To be born of such a hateful man, to be married to another… Truly, Walda was a victim as well, without the means or ability to save herself, let alone others.

Perhaps if it were only Walda that Sansa had to worry about, Sansa would be able to figure out a way to save the poor woman. But she carried the heir to the Dreadfort in her womb. And even if she hadn’t, House Frey would continue on through her offspring, and would no doubt be shaped into a wicked man by wicked men.

But was _she_ not wicked? Sansa frowned, and as if sensing her mistress’s distress, Alison pressed her head into her lap and licked at her fingers. She ran her fingers down her hound’s snout and the dog’s tail beat against the floor, drawing a genuine smile from her. It amazed her at the bond she had formed with the beast, but Sansa always seemed to draw the loyalty of hounds.

_The Hound’s ravaged face, both savage and cruel, lay open before her as she came to understand him for the first time. Sansa could see that despite himself, the Hound seemed protective of her._

_“A hound will die for you, but never lie to you,” he explained. “And he’ll look you straight in the face.”_

_Considering the knights who called themselves “Sir” and cloaked themselves in white as they beat her, Sansa thought that being known as “The Hound” was not such a terrible thing after all_.

Running her fingers through Alison’s fur, Sansa tried to wrap her mind around killing a woman and her child. Would she be able to do it? Sansa remembered when Myranda had boasted about killing her friend, Violet, because Ramsay had gotten the girl pregnant. She had thought that Myranda was cruel and merciless.

Once upon a time, someone had pushed her brother from a window. She remembered thinking that there could be nothing more evil in the world than harming a helpless child.

Robb’s wife had been killed with their unborn child in their belly. She had cried for days over the loss of a woman she had never met and a nephew or niece she would never get an opportunity to know. If she ever had any doubt about the ruthlessness of the Lannisters, she knew how dangerous they were in that moment. She had thought them without compassion.

How far would she go to protect herself? Meeting her own gaze in the mirror, she acknowledged the stranger she found there.

The quietest of knocks interrupted her thoughts before the door opened to admit the ghost of Theon Greyjoy, haunted by his own series of unfortunate choices. He, too, must see a stranger when he looks at his own reflection, if he ever did. Sansa was quite sure that Theon hadn’t in a while. He didn’t have the courage to face the truth of his misdeeds.

She waited until Reek put down the fresh decanters of water and wine before addressing him.

“Why?” she asked.

The question was so softly spoken, Theon thought for a moment it was merely his own subconscious torturing him. But when he glanced up, he saw Sansa staring at him in the mirror. Her gaze was sharper than any blade his Master had used on him. Truly, in this lighting, her eyes did quite mirror her husband’s.

“Why Theon?” she prompted, when all he dared do is stare dumbly at her like some farm animal.

He licked his dry, cracked lips. “Not Theon. There is no Theon. Reek.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly at him. She knew better than most people the power of repeated prayer, of a mantra and the spell of protection that it offered.

_I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey._

She was done singing songs. “Why did you tell him?”

“I didn’t want to,” Reek began, but Sansa wasn’t having it.

“Didn’t you?” she interrupted, finally turning to address him. “You knew what would happen to Magda, but you still told him anyway. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that a servant’s life means nothing to you. Still, you didn’t stand to benefit from speaking out. So, my question remains. Why did you tell him?”

“I was helping you.” Reek knew she didn’t believe him from the frost in her complexion so he continued, “Myranda saw and I knew she would tell the Master.”

“So you decided to do it first, is that it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, desperation seeping out of his pores.

“To protect me,” Sansa reiterated, disbelief coloring her expression.

“Myranda would have lied—would have told him something worse.” Theon needed her to understand, needed her to forgive him.

“Better coming from me. I was helping you,” he explained.

“ _Magda_ was helping me. Magda was _protecting_ me,” Sansa snapped, fed up with his excuses. “You are keeping me here, pinning me down in every way so that I cannot escape, not even into the safety of my own thoughts.”

“There is no escape,” he said, suddenly very quiet and still. “Not ever.”

“Theon Greyjoy tried to escape. The Master knew. He knows everything,” Reek whispered hopelessly. “He hunted him and caught him. Strapped him to a cross. He cut away piece after piece until there was no Theon left.”

Reek looked helplessly at Sansa, swallowing the tears of shame that threatened to fall. He glanced away and sniffled, trying to pull himself back together.

“Good.”

Sansa’s voice was the cruel, unforgiving winter. It was frostbite coming to steal away what little there was left of him.

“If it weren’t for you, I’d still have a family. Magda was one of the only things that I had left, the barest echo of my mother, and you took her too. If I could do what Ramsay did to you, right here, right now, I would,” she swore.

He could see she meant it. She meant every word.

“I deserved everything. I deserve to be Reek.” Each declaration was an apology, a prayer for forgiveness. “I did terrible things. Turned on Robb. Captured Winterfell. Killed those boys-.”

“They weren’t _those boys_ , they were Bran and Rickon.” Her rage propelled her to her feet as she hissed, “They were your brothers. You’ve known them since they were born.”

Sansa’s fury stirred Alison from her perch. The hound bared her teeth at him, an echo of the ferocity in Sansa’s voice, in her words.

“They weren’t.” Reek was desperate. “They were only—"

“Only what?” she prompted, stepping into him.

“I can’t,” Theon backpedaled, shaking his head wildly.

“Tell me,” Sansa demanded.

She and Alison were practically on top of him now. Theon’s back hit the wall. There was nowhere else for him to go.

“I can’t. Not unless the Master says.”

“Tell me,” she pressed. “They weren’t what?”

“They weren’t-“ his voice stuttered in his panic and she closed the space between them.

“Tell me why Bran and Rickon should be gone while you still breathe the air?” she hissed, infuriated by his dissolution.

Sansa grabbed hold of his face, her grip like a vice as she forced him to look at her, look into her. “Tell me to my face, Theon! Tell me that they weren’t your brothers. Tell me—.”

“They weren’t Bran and Rickon!” he interrupted. Sansa’s hands stayed on his face, but her nails retracted.

Her expression was muddied. Disbelief, fear, hope--- so many emotions fought to the surface and he watched them flicker to life before she buried them somewhere inside herself. Still, Theon wanted to kindle that hope in her. He couldn’t bear it if she became what he was.

“I couldn’t find them,” Theon confessed. “It was two farm boys. I killed them and burned them so no one would know.”

“Do you know where they went, Bran and Rickon?” Sansa’s voice was deceptively calm as she tried and failed to process the news that her brothers were alive.

Her question, however, made Reek realize the danger of the situation he had put her in.

“I can’t talk to you anymore,” he whispered, trying to pull out of her grip.

“Theon, you have to tell me,” she demanded, desperation beginning to color her voice. “Do you have any idea where they might have—?”

“Not Theon, Reek!” he screamed in a panic.

Reek turned to leave, to flee from the room and the memory of all he had done, but Sansa’s voice stopped him cold.

“ **Reek**. **Stay** ,” she ordered.

His response was one that Ramsay had happily beat into him. He took his hand off the door handle as a chill went up his spine.

Sansa had _never_ called him Reek. Even when he had to hold her down, even when the Master told her to, even when he saw her shame.

“Turn around, Reek.” Her voice was soft, gentle.

He wanted to cry because he knew what was to come. She was using the same tactics that Ramsay had used on him a thousand times over, but in her hands, it seemed so much crueler.

“Look at me.”

Reek shook his head like a disobedient child, keeping his gaze on the floor. The ground was safe. The ground was where he belonged.

This time when Sansa touched his face, it was the barest whisper of flesh. Her fingertips just barely touched the skin under his chin, applying the lightest of pressure. And he, like a trained dog, followed her command and soon he was staring into Sansa’s face.

But this time, it _was_ Sansa’s face. Her true face.

“I need you to make a choice. Right here, right now,” Sansa said, her voice soft and sure.

“You can choose to be Reek,” she offered. “Ramsay carved out this existence for you, he took away all the parts of you that you thought defined you. He stripped you down and laughed at the bare bones of you. And you, in your pain, in your grief, in your guilt for all you have done, you allowed him to become your Master. He forced you to obey but you _chose_ to serve.”

Theon felt the arguments on his tongue, the many excuses his mind provided, but he swallowed them down with the bitter truth.

“You can remain loyal to Ramsay and all the protection that brings you. It means that you have been punished for your crimes and that when you die, you will have suffered for all the evil you have done.”

And he deserved to suffer.

“Or… you can be loyal to yourself,” Sansa stated.

Theon’s brow furrowed with confusion, but Sansa just smiled at him. “A much harder task, for no one can be a crueler judge. You can choose to be Theon again. In doing so, you acknowledge all of your misdeeds and work hard to redeem yourself.

“There is no way to undo what you have done, but you can atone for it. You can **earn** forgiveness, Theon. But Reek… Reek will never be forgiven. Not by me. Not ever.”

The promise of her forgiveness was a siren song that Theon couldn’t dream of denying. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness, her trust, her openness. He didn’t deserve this offer of understanding. And yet, she gave it to him all the same. If he refused her now, he truly was no better than Ramsay. A different kind of monster, but a monster all the same.

“So the question remains: Do you want to be forgiven, Theon?” Sansa asked. “Can you forgive yourself?”

“I don’t know… I don’t know if I can. Not after everything I’ve done,” he admitted.

Sansa’s hand covered his. He saw her broken nails and torn cuticles, the bruises on her knuckles, and cuts in the webbings. Her hand was fresh carnage over the twisted scars and raised flesh of his broken hands. She knew. As Sansa wove their hands together, it looked like the beginning and end of a story he knew by heart.

“I don’t know if I can either,” she confessed quietly.

He wasn’t sure if Sansa was talking about forgiving herself or him, but her cool fingers squeezed his and a tear slid down her cheek. Alison came forward, pressing into her side before nudging their entwined hands. The hound inspected them for a moment, as if to determine if he was hurting her Mistress. Theon expected teeth on flesh, the flash of pain, but Alison simply pressed her cool nose to his skin before sitting back on her haunches.

“We can do it together Theon,” Sansa offered.

He looked at her in awe, never more sure in his life that he had ever been in the presence of someone this good and true. Sansa was the Maiden reborn.

“Together,” Theon agreed.

She offered him a shy smile and in it, he saw the truth in what she offered. He could earn her trust, her forgiveness. He could reclaim all that was lost.

“I don’t know where to start,” he admitted.

“At the beginning,” Sansa suggested, guiding him to a comfortable chair. “Tell me everything that happened. Everything from the moment that our family was split in two.”

She crossed the room to the water decanter he had originally brought into the room. As Theon fumbled with his beginnings, she quietly poured him a glass of water to give him time to gather his thoughts. With a gentle nudge, she offered him the drink. This simple kindness seemed to encourage him, for he took a large swig of it as though it were a more fortifying beverage that would strengthen his resolve.

Sansa smiled to herself as Theon began to talk. She settled into the chair opposite him, and Alison’s head was soon heavy in her lap. The night would be long, and Theon’s voice was already rough with disuse.

Of course, that would be why she had requested he bring water to her chambers in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have enjoyed interchanging the use of “Reek” and “Theon” in the story and tried to make specific choices as to when he would be referred to by either name, in the narrative and the dialogue. I decided to use it as a tool to show how Theon emerges from Reek as he dares to defy his master. The show expedited this process semi-successfully, but the book really does a wonderful job of discussing how difficult it is to escape from abuse and trauma. 
> 
> Some people have commented that this version of Theon is “more active” in Sansa’s rape. The show is never explicit about his part, but I cannot imagine that Ramsay wouldn’t at least repeat the experience that occurred on his wedding night. In the books, Reek is forced to be a participant in Jeyne’s rape and torment, so I simply extrapolated on that concept.
> 
> Sansa’s memory of the Hound was from _A Clash of Kings_. It's a wonderful scene that was captured, in part, in a deleted scene from Season 2.


	14. Fourteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ramsay wasn’t quite sure what game his wife was playing, but he wasn’t opposed to it. He would win. He **always** won. Even now he could see the seeds of corruption he had planted within her germinating. Soon, she would either shatter under his influence or be warped by it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay. I am entering my last semester in the veterinary nursing program, so it's been extremely intense. Additionally, I have been struggling with the closing chapters of this fiction as I try to find the perfect balance between foreshadowing and insight. Not to mention I've been trying to incorporate small flashbacks within chapters while maintaining the through line of the story-- something that plays out seamlessly in a cinematic fashion in my head but is difficult to translate into words. Considering I don't have a lot of time to devote to this fiction, it's slow going, but still moving forward. 
> 
> This chapter contains elements from 5x8: _Hardhome_ and 5x9: _The Dance of Dragons_. In show terms, the chapter opens hours after Ramsay sets fire to Stannis’ camp. As per canon, a full day passes in which Shireen is sacrificed before the final battle between the Boltons and Baratheons.
> 
> **Trigger warning:** There is a scene containing dubious consent in the later part of the chapter.

**Fourteen.**

_“Don’t be fooled by her innocent eyes_

_She’s a wolf”_

― “Wolves”, Chasing Victory

Dawn was barely cresting over the hill when Ramsay returned to Winterfell. He could barely contain his glee at how well his plans had gone, his clothes still carried the scent of fire and victory. He and his men had hidden just out of sight, muffling their laughter as panicked screams spread through the Baratheon camp. The flames had caught rapidly, better than he could have hoped. Stannis’s forces and supplies were no doubt demolished. Now it would be mere child’s play for his father to defeat the Baratheon army.

He enjoyed the delicious irony of watching the banners of a burning heart burst into flames. So much for their fire god.

Ramsay’s blood was rushing through his veins, his color high beneath the ash on his face. His mind raced as he thought of the many ways he could celebrate by violating his wife or Myranda—or perhaps the both of them together. But first he had to report to his father and discuss their plans of attack in the next day. He was sure that his actions would be rewarded with a rare act of praise.

As he approached the castle, he saw Myranda at the mouth of the kennel. Their gazes met and she met him lust for lust. The prospect of a quick tryst before speaking with his father stoked the fire in his veins and Myranda grinned with dark promise.

Before he could move toward her, a group of his father’s men turned the corner from the Godswood. As they parted, Sansa walked between them. A lush hooded crimson cloak covered her as she glanced down at the book in her hand. Beneath the cloak, he saw the hint of her white nightgown, only a few shades lighter than her flesh. She looked like a maiden once more.

Alison followed her every step, alternating between scanning the grounds and looking up at her mistress with awe. To his surprise, another hound flanked Sansa’s other side. It was a young brindle cane corso that he recognized to be from Grey Jeyne’s most recent litter. Sansa favored the pup with a gentle pat before glancing up and meeting his calculating gaze.

“Husband,” she greeted, coming to a stop a few feet from him.

“Wife,” Ramsay acknowledged, his fingers itching to touch, to bruise. “What were you doing?”

“My daily devotions to the Old Gods,” she replied, gaging his mood. “I’m well-guarded, as you see.”

As Sansa dismissed the guards, Ramsay devoured the space between them until they were face to face.

Unable to stop himself, his fingers traced her collarbones, her jawline. For once, they were clear of his mark. Her time in the hole had returned her skin to a creamy complexion and made her bone structure just a little bit more apparent.

However, her lovely cheekbone had bruised marvelously from his hand. His father would no doubt be angry with him over it, but he was quite enamored with the colors on her face. His fingers itched to bruise her again, to claim her flesh over and over. It was so bare now, but Ramsay would soon rectify that. He enjoyed contemplating just where and how he would mark her.

“And what were you praying for, Sansa?” he crooned, pressing his thumb into her bruised cheek. “Forgiveness for cutting your friend’s throat?”

He was practically salivating for the crack in her courtesy, but Sansa did not break. Instead, she eyed him with amusement. “And why would I need to be forgiven for that? I believe that death is a mercy, not a punishment.”

Before he could reply, Sansa mirrored him by cupped his cheek. Startled by her forwardness, he kept still as she gently swiped her thumb on his cheek. Her touch was like ice, stinging and soothing the fire beneath his skin.

As she pulled away, Ramsay felt the bizarre urge to lean into her touch, to see if her ice would melt from his heat.

Sansa regarded the soot on her finger, “It appears you were successful in your mission.”

“I was,” he replied.

“Soon the last false king will be dead and all the Bolton men will know it was because of you,” Sansa considered him, rubbing the soot between her thumb and pointer finger. “The ones that doubted you, who deigned to call you _bastard_ will never have cause to do so again.”

Ramsay wasn’t quite sure what game his wife was playing, but he wasn’t opposed to it. He would win. He _always_ won. Even now he could see the seeds of corruption he had planted within her germinating. Soon, she would either shatter under his influence or be warped by it.

“Ramsay,” Roose greeted, startling him.

He glanced over to his father waiting at the door to the Great Hall before turning back to his wife. Sansa merely demurred from him, turning to walk towards her living quarters. It was then he noticed his wife’s feet were bare. His father called to him again, impatience coloring his tone. Ramsay entered the Great Hall by Roose’s side, reporting on his mission.

Myranda stood forgotten at the mouth of the kennels, seething with rage.

…

When he went to find his wife later, her presence eluded him. She was not in any of her familiar haunts. He searched the Godswood, the glass gardens, the library, even the kennel. She was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, Ramsay was surprised to find her in his stepmother’s sitting room. Walda’s fat face was creased with concentration as she listened to Sansa. His wife was bent over her, pointing to various figures in a book. Since he saw her this morning, she had changed into a day dress. She was dressed in a simple black velvet gown, but the cut managed to make her look both sharp and alluring. Her narrow waist and long figure, combined with her efficient movements, reminded him of his best field dress knife.

This morning she looked like a virgin ripe for picking. Now she looked like she was wrapped in sin. Ramsay’s mouth watered as he contemplated which fantasy he would bring to light once he got her alone.

“Mother,” Ramsay greeted. Sansa’s eyes snapped to his and he could swear her iris’s lightened. “Wife.”

“R-Ramsay,” Walda stuttered, fingers skittering over the pages of the book before her like a nervous child.

“What have I interrupted?” he asked. Although his expression and tone were teasing, his eyes spoke of the hidden threat.

“Lady Walda was having some trouble with her arithmetic when going over the numbers for our grain storage and livestock. I was merely helping her,” Sansa explained before favoring Walda with an encouraging hand on her shoulder. “I’m afraid she did not have the benefit of a septa to teach her in the duties of a lady as I had, but she is making some good progress.”

His stepmother’s face lit up at Sansa’s praise. Indeed, she seemed to be hanging on his wife’s every word. It nauseated him.

“How thoughtful of you,” Ramsay replied. Although Walda completely missed the skepticism in his voice, his wife did not.

“You have a most kind and clever wife,” Walda complimented.

“I do,” he said, stalking closer to his kind and _clever_ wife.

“A starving people are an unhappy people. I saw it firsthand in Kings Landing,” Sansa explained. Her chin lifted in the air as she observed him, uncowed by his display of dominance. “Our people rely on us to protect them, as we rely on them to serve us.”

“Yes, _our_ people,” Ramsay whispered before grasping hold of her stubborn chin.

There was something in her newfound bravery that made him want to sink his teeth into all the soft parts of her until she screamed his name. He settled for a slow, deep kiss, dragging it on past the point of decency in the hopes of humiliating his little wife.

When he pulled away, he was satisfied that the pink of her lips matched the color in her cheeks. Her eyes however were ablaze, the color of blue flame.

Turning to his mother, he smiled apologetically. “You’ll forgive me, Lady Walda, but I must steal my wife away. We have much to discuss before the battle tomorrow. I’m sure she can continue your lessons whilst my father and I crush the Baratheon forces once and for all.”

“Of course,” Walda muttered, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

Walda feared for her new friend. Although she was not a smart woman, years of observing her father and brothers made her very familiar with the dangers of being alone with a man—especially when it was with a man who felt they owned you.

But there was nothing Walda could do. As a child, she ate to change her body into something her brothers would not be tempted to touch. She made herself as invisible as possible by doing as she was told and keeping her head low. It served her well with her new husband, who left her to her own devices as long as she obeyed him. The only way Walda survived was to be silent and to serve.

Being brave now would not help anyone.

“Keep practicing,” Sansa instructed as she took her husband’s arm. “We will go over your figures tomorrow.”

As she watched her good daughter leave the room, she prayed to the Mother that Sansa wouldn’t disappear in the bowels of the castle once more.

…

Sansa seemed surprised when he led her to his bedchambers. Since their wedding night, Ramsay took great pleasure in debauching her in her childhood bed and had never chosen to take her to his private rooms. Still, his wife entered without hesitation and when he turned from closing and locking the door, she sat on the edge of the bed like a good, obedient girl.

Before Ramsay could speak, she slipped her small clothes off from under her gown. Hitching up her skirts, she spread her legs with a bored expression. His eyes traveled to the core of her, and he couldn’t help but reach out and press his fingers against his mark on her inner thigh. No man would ever think to take her without knowing who she belonged to. His nails traced the edge of the **_R_** and he smiled as goosebumps broke out over her skin.

“Will this take long?” Sansa asked as though inquiring about a luncheon. “I only ask that you do not ruin this gown.”

“I hadn’t thought to find you so eager,” Ramsay mused as his hand cupped her sex. He felt the tremble in her thighs, but her face did not betray her fears.

“Eager?” she scoffed. “As a child is for a chore. But it must be done. As your father said, we need an heir.”

He pulled away from her, his face a mix of bemusement and surprise. “Suddenly so quick to follow orders. Are you saying I don’t please you?”

“Oh Ramsay,” Sansa sighed, smiling cruelly. “I don’t think you’ve ever pleased a woman in your life.”

His wife had a talent for igniting his rage. Without a thought, his hand closed around her throat as his bit into her ear. Ramsay wondered how impassive she would be if her were to rip it off her head. Desire curled low in his belly, but he knew that his father forbid him from visibly maiming his wife. Perhaps he would tear off a nipple instead. She only needed one to nurse their child. Ramsay’s hand slid into the collar of her beloved dress before tearing it open, ripping the enclosure.

A sudden sharp pain made him pull away. Ramsay stared down uncomprehending at his chest. A single clean stroke sliced him from his lift pectoral to his right shoulder. The gash was just deep enough to bleed well. Every movement he would make would tug at the wound, although it did no harm other than scarring his chest.

Looking over at his wife, she calmly wiped off a small, thin dagger before sheathing it. The chain around her waist had appeared to merely be decorative, echoing the small, daggered necklace she wore upon arriving in Winterfell. But it appeared Sansa had decided to create a feminine twin of the chain that Baelish favored, with a dagger not unlike the one he kept tucked in his side scabbard.

Sansa was tutting at him like a disobedient child as she looked down at her gown. “You disappoint me. I _told_ you not to rip the gown. I am quite fond of it. Now it’s sullied.”

Ramsay was stunned by her absolute lack of fear. His wife treated him as though retribution for such an act would be a smack on the wrist.

“Luckily, it looks to be an easy repair,” she murmured before finally observing him. The smile that curved her lips was an echo of his. He could have been looking in the mirror instead of at his wife’s face.

Standing, it was now she who stalked up to him. “Perhaps I spoke too soon,” she whispered as her nail found the edge of his wound, digging into it. “You _do_ know how to please your wife.”

Ramsay exploded in a fury of sexual violence. As he pressed his wife into the mattress, he was pleased when she was no longer unmoved by his touch. His she-wolf fought him every step of the way, teeth and nails finding purchase. Although Sansa was the one left sullied and motionless on the bed, both of their blood stained his sheets, mixing until he could not tell where his rage ended and her cruelty began.

Before leaving, he made sure to wrap his wife in the pelt of her brother’s direwolf. It wouldn’t do for his lady wife to catch cold.

…

As the scullery maid was fetching water, she fought back a yawn. The sky was still pitch black at this time of morning, leaving her to find her way to the well based on muscle memory. She was used to it, just as she was used to being all alone in the dark courtyard.

Perhaps that’s why she was startled to see the Lady of Winterfell standing among the trees. She looked wild, red hair blending into the dark crimson of the weirwood leaves twisted in the strands. As though impervious to the cold, her lady was clad only in her nightgown and walked barefoot in the snow, her hounds at her side. Her eyes were brighter than the moon on the ice.

When the girl ran to tell the kitchen maid what she had seen, she reprimanded her for being so foolish and boxed her ears for the trouble. It was well known that Lord Ramsay locked his wife into her bedchambers every night, and there was no way the kennel master would have allowed any of the bastard’s hounds out of his sight.

But rumors still spread of the Red Wolf emerging from the wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nightgown Sansa wears beneath her cloak is the one from the Sansa/Theon scene in episode 5x7: _The Gift._
> 
> [ This is the black dress I envisioned for this chapter.](http://m.salelolita.com/images/marie_antoinette_dresses/2016112119072934/Winter%20Black%20Gothic%20Victorian%20Edwardian%20Dress%20Medieval%20Historical%20Manor%20Mistress%20Costume%20Carnivale%20Theatre%20Performance%20Gown_1929341.jpg) It is very difficult to try to pick outfits for Sansa, as there isn’t an exact “period” with which to reference, but I do my best to find dresses I could picture within the context of the show. Additionally, Sansa’s evolution is heavily expressed in her clothing, so I wanted to try to include that into this story. In my mind, it is a version of Sansa’s famous raven dress from the end of Season 4, so conceivably this dress could be the same gown, but the raven feathers have been removed (rather symbolically). This also makes sense from a time period standpoint and women frequently “updated” old gowns rather than purchasing new ones. I cannot picture Roose Bolton giving Sansa an allowance for dresses, so all of her gowns are repurposed from somewhere. 
> 
> The dagger chain Sansa is wearing is the one that she has on her coronation gown in the final episode. Michele Clapton, the costume designer for the show, said that this dagger was the final evolution of her “needle” necklace that she wears in her final scene in Season 4. This necklace actually goes through three evolutions. The original needle necklace changes slightly once Sansa reclaims Winterfell after the BoB. I like this necklace because to me it is Sansa’s way of protecting herself and is an echo of/tribute to her sister’s “needle.” The necklace eventually becomes a chained dagger that is worn with Sansa’s coronation gown in the last episode. 
> 
> Michele Clapton, the show’s costume designers, said that the needle honors her sister but also that it is meant to be a version of Baelish’s dagger. As this version of Sansa is a little more vicious, but also embodies the various people she learns from, I decided that she is currently in position of this version of her dagger.
> 
> Lastly, the new hound in this chapter was promised to her from the litter that was mentioned in Chapter 6.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and questions will be gladly answered. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


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